


The Ripper Project

by LdyBug88



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Camp Nanowrimo, Mystery, Pseudoscience, Slight Hannigram - Freeform, Suspense, mostly hinted at, spoilers for the entire series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 16:48:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 50,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6713014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LdyBug88/pseuds/LdyBug88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wakes up in near dark with no memory of who he is, where he is, why he's there, or any of the events leading up to waking up on the cold, hard floor. His exploration of the cold facility he finds himself in leads to discoveries that he almost wishes he didn't have to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Started When He Woke Up

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea for a while, but only recently discovered that the Hannibal fandom would be the best way to write it. This is based on my favorite text adventure, Babel, and was written for Camp NaNoWriMo. Enjoy.  
> The usual disclaimer: I own nothing and no one involved in the Hannibal universe or with the game Babel, though my quest for independent wealth would be over if I did.

Or maybe it ended. It was hard to say when he had to fight against his own mind to wake up. It felt like he was running through a dense forest, all light blocked by the branches and leaves, the trees too close together to get any real sense of where he was. A fog had rolled in, maybe overnight or maybe it had always been there, waiting for him, but he knew he had to get through it. There wasn’t a true moment when things lightened, it was almost a constant feeling of suffocation until he could finally open his eyes.

  
“Shit.”

  
He’s completely disoriented. The tendrils of fog from the forest of his mind are still wrapped tight around him, but he fights against it, trying to get his mind to release itself from the dark forest he had been stuck in. Had that been his own harsh voice? He struggles to focus. He can feel his heart racing. Is that in response to the dream? If he can really call it a dream.

  
At first everything is black, and then bright white. He realizes that the white isn’t going away. In fact, everywhere he turns is white. A stark, sterile white that feels supremely unwelcoming. He blinks and the white slowly dims. His senses are finally coming back online after several moments of dull numbness. Though now, it’s significantly worse. Cold. It was strikingly cold. So much so that it’s all he can feel for a few moments. Now that he can feel, he can feel everything. Now he can feel the bitter cold of the air, the unyielding cold and hardness of the surface he’s lying on, because he is, indeed, lying down. He turns his head from side to side, not ready to really see anything yet, but trying to get a handle on himself. How _is_ he feeling? Why is he lying on the hard floor? Why is he in a hallway? Did he fall asleep here? His thoughts halt before turning frantic. He doesn’t actually know where he is. Not only does he not know why he’s lying on the floor, but he doesn’t even know where the floor _is_. He slowly sits up, a hand immediately going to his aching head. He jolts when he touches soft, short curls before touching his scalp. It only then occurs to him…not only does he not know where he is or why he’s here, but he doesn’t even know _who_ he is. He has no familiarity with the hair on his head. He glances down his own body, which he only knows is his because it appears to be attached to his head. How grim to realize that he doesn’t know what he looks like, or why he’s wearing white pants and a white t-shirt. The pants he recognizes readily enough as scrub pants. Hospital issue scrub pants. That knowledge paired with the sterile looking hallway and the sharp scent of sanitizer in the air makes him wonder if he’s in a hospital somewhere. Is he a patient? Is he injured? He runs his hands quickly, but gently, along his body to feel for any injuries. Fortunately, all he feels are aches and bruises that could be from a fall to the floor. _Had_ he fallen? Was that why he’s on the floor?  
His mind feels about as cold and desolate as the place he doesn’t recognize. He can almost feel the trails of a memory, but it’s as if it runs from him when he tries to follow. He can’t think of anything but even more questions than the ones already flowing through his mind. Why can’t he remember? Did something happen to make him not remember? _What_ happened? Where is he? Were there other people here? Why aren’t other people _here_? Why is he wearing white clothes, and _only white_ clothes? Why is he wearing hospital pants? Why isn’t he wearing shoes? Why is he lying on the floor in the hallway? How long has he been lying on the floor in the hallway? How long has he been here, wherever that is? Why…why are the lights not fully on? He realizes then that the lights are now incredibly dim, dimmer than he expected, his eyes having finally adjusted from…whatever they needed to adjust from. They appear to be emergency backup lights. He shakes his head, unsure how he knows even that much. It seems as though he didn't forget _everything_ , just everything about himself. With that in mind, he stands, brushing his hands along the back of his pants as if to brush off anything he may have picked up from the pristine looking floor. He could probably eat off this floor and have it be perfectly safe. It’s _that_ clean.

  
First things first. He considers the dim lighting and decides his first plan should be to find a maintenance closet, or fuse box, or something. Maybe it’s an easy enough fix to just flip a few switches and it’s all better, lights on, memories back, done.

  
“Yeah, right, I’m sure that’s what’s going to happen,” he grumbles to himself, wanting to hear his voice again, then changing his mind. It might as well be the voice of a stranger for how much he recognizes it. Moving on. He looks around the hall, noting a thick, heavy metal door at the north end of the hall. Yet another thing he seems to just _know_. It’s apparently remarkably easy to orient himself here. He can easily point out north, south, east, and west, though he doesn’t know how. He chalks it up to just one more thing that he just seems to know. He looks around again, seeing more lights south, down the hall. He keeps hoping something will strike him as familiar, but the only thing he can recall before waking on the floor is a vague dream of being lost in a forest. Yeah, that’s about right, he thinks, except instead of a forest, it’s a desolate, frigid, empty compound. Exploring obviously sounds like a great idea, he snarks silently before heading down the hall, against all instincts that might say otherwise, towards the light.


	2. The Problem Isn't Trying To Make His Way In the Dim Lights

The problem is in trying not to flinch with every step, every touch of his bare feet against the freezing floor. He rubs his arms absently, feeling the bitter chill in the air even more now. These clothes don’t do much to help ward off the cold. They’re barely thick enough to be considered decent if he were in the presence of another person. He was tempted to see if he could see the outline of his boxer briefs through the pants, but wasn’t that worried about it. If there _were_ other people around, they could deal with it. He follows the hall south until he comes to an atrium. The ceiling is high, a round skylight letting in light from the outside. At least there’s that, he thinks, at least I’m not stuck in some deep underground bunker. The light didn’t do anything for the room, though, he realized. If anything, it made it seem that much colder. The walls are the same sterile white as the hall, no rugs on the floor, nothing on the walls. It was really just a big, empty room. With a skylight. Obviously that makes up for it. Wasn’t even like it offers a view, he frowns up at the skylight. All he can see is pale blue sky and sunlight. There is a hallway, aside from the one he came from, to the south, as well as another thick metal door, like the one at the north end of the hall, to the east. He makes a beeline for the east door and touches it, trying to find some sort of handle. As soon as he touches the door, a blinding pain shoots through his skull and both of his hands go to cradle his head, as if that would help stop the pain. He doesn’t feel the pain as he falls to his knees, he’s too distracted by the strange pendulum that appears in his mind. The pendulum swings three times before he can see what’s going on.

> _I hear a terrified scream from the east hall. I can’t move, all I can do is watch. The lights are bright in the room, no longer relying on sunlight from above and the emergency lights, but with the full support of working electricity. A slim, weasel of a man with short brown hair runs in from the hall, wheezing and out of breath. He slips on the cold tile, falling hard to the floor. His leg cracks as it is bent impossibly from the knee, and I see now that he slipped on blood that had run down his leg, from his thigh. A knife was sticking out of his thigh, his tan slacks saturated in blood. A woman runs in from the north hall, kneeling quickly beside the man. Her brown hair loose around her shoulders, hands already reaching out as if to help the man on the floor, but stopping when they get close. She is unaware, or uncaring, of the blood she is kneeling in, painting her white slacks as if they were a morbid kind of canvas. Her mouth opens and closes a few times before she can actually speak, but when she does, her voice is tinged with fear and concern, “Frederick, what happened?”_
> 
> _The man, Frederick, huffs, unmoving as he tries to catch his breath. His eyes are glassy with shock, but he speaks, his voice an annoying whine, “That…thing…the Wendigo…it’s free…he…it…somehow it got out.”_
> 
> _More feet rush in from the north hall, but I can’t see who comes in. The images fade. The pendulum swings three times and it all goes dark._

He slowly opens his eyes, almost fearing that he’ll still see the woman and man, Frederick, lying in the middle of the atrium. It had been so real. So very real. He _knows_ what he saw actually happened. He _knows_! He just doesn’t know how he knows that, or why. He stares blankly at the metal door he’s now leaning against for a few more minutes, gathering himself. He pulls away, standing, seeing the faded outline of Frederick’s blood on the tiles an instant before turning back to examine the door. There are no handles or knobs, no way to open the door. Then he notices the silver plate beside the door, with a slot in the middle. Key card access. Well, he considers, there’s no way to open it without turning the power back on. If it _can_ be turned back on, that is. Then he still needs to find a card.

He had come from the hallway to the north, and the only other option was the hallway to the south. Hopefully there’s something that way that he can work with. Probably too much to hope for a big sign saying “this is it, this is what you need to know”. A man could dream. He makes his way down the south hall, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. Or at least nothing different than the north hall. Everything is still dim. Eerily so. It’s silent, the only sound coming from his own feet against the tiles. He gets the impression that normally he’s okay with silence, but there’s something about _this_ particular silence that puts him on edge. The southernmost end of the hall is a thick, inky blackness that he doesn’t even want to try to stumble around in, but there _is_ a door to the east. He tentatively reaches for the door before realizing that it’s a regular door knob and doesn’t give him more crazy visions like the metal door had. He slowly opens it, not quite sure why he goes as slowly as he does, but still thinking that maybe there could be someone on the other side.

He looks into the room, but all he can see are large, rectangular masses of shadow shown by the dim light in the hallway. Stepping into the room, he looks around for any sign of what this room is for. In his periphery, he notices a slight motion. Turning to it, he feels his heart beat faster, his hands coming up as if to defend himself against an attack, eyes closing in a brief moment of all-encompassing fear. A moment passes before he can bring himself to crack his eyes, glancing in the direction the movement had come from. A cabinet door. He lowers his hands, feeling foolish and mentally berating himself for his reaction. He had been ready for a deadly attack from…a cabinet. He steps directly in front of the cabinet, opening the door completely, looking inside.

This is exactly what he was hoping for. The cabinet houses a number of switches, but he focuses on the largest one, a red one, and flips it. Feeling a moment of victory as a low humming starts up, he’s knocked back off kilter when the overhead lights turn on, the fluorescent lights nearly blinding in their brilliance. He keeps his eyes shut for a few minutes before hearing an electronic voice announce, _“ **Main power supply returned. Auxiliary power supply on standby. All station functions returning to normal**.”_

He cautiously opens his eyes, preparing for the pain that comes of moving from the darkness into the light. He gives his eyes a moment to adjust before looking around. He actually managed to find the control, or communications, room. The rectangular shadows are now recognizable machines, including a bank of security monitors showing various parts of the facility and a separate terminal holding a keyboard and monitor. The main monitor is still black, but the security monitors are on and working. There are eight monitors, each showing a different room. One shows the atrium he just came from, but four of the others show rooms he has yet to see. None look familiar, nor do they jog his memory like what happened in the atrium. Four of the monitors are static. Wonder what happened there, he considers before noticing each monitor has a label telling which room was being surveilled. The four static monitors are labeled Gallery Junction, Terran Gallery, Aquatic Gallery, and Avian Gallery. The atrium was labeled Center. He supposes it could be the center of the facility. Because that would make sense. Then again, nothing here is really making sense to him quite yet, so he wouldn’t be surprised if it is actually on the far west. He peers at the other monitors, looking first at the one labeled Entry Area. This is a relatively small room with three doors: one a door with key card access, the other a large metal bulkhead, and the last a smaller door in a slight alcove. He turns back to the monitors and looks at the one labeled Lab Entrance next. This one shows a room with a set of swinging doors, a smaller door, and a hallway. He wonders why these are monitored over other rooms in the facility. He also takes a moment to wonder exactly how large the facility actually _is_. The last working monitor has a label reading Round Room. The round room is exactly that. It’s a circular room, but that isn’t what catches his attention. What catches his attention is that this is the only room he’s seen so far that actually looks lived in. It isn’t the sterile white that the rest of the facility has been. This room feels like one that he should be able to relax in. It shows a thin shag carpet on the floor instead of the dreaded white tile he’s used to. There are five doorways he can see in this room. Four are set to the four cardinal directions: north, south, east, and west. Each of those doors has a plate beside it, but he can’t read what they say, the camera is too far away. The fifth door is another of the heavy, metal doors he’s now getting used to seeing almost as much as the cold sterility of the white walls and tiles. Maybe this is living space. Though that would mean this facility is meant to be lived in and not worked in. Or maybe both? Or maybe it really _is_ a hospital or care facility. He shudders at the thought, somehow knowing it isn’t.

Movement catches his eye and he turns toward the main terminal, which is now up and running. It booted up while he was distracted by the other monitors and now displays a message:

**Last Message Out** :  **_Problems reached critical level – complete evacuation arranged – do not attempt further contact – research must be considered destroyed – Ripper Project Failed – out._**

He isn’t sure what that means, but his blood runs cold at the thought of it. Ripper Project. What sort of project is it that it would fail so spectacularly? Maybe he’s somehow involved in the project. What “problems” occurred for such a final message? Then he realizes something. “Complete evacuation arranged”. Does that mean everyone is gone? Had he somehow been left behind? He shakes his head, trying not to think about it so hard. He feels sharp stabs of pain whenever he tries to remember what happened, so maybe it is best if he tries _not_ to think about it.

He takes one more look around the room before deciding to continue his exploration. He goes back into the south hall and looks to the south, where it had previously been so deep in shadow that he hadn’t wanted to venture closer. Now, though, he realizes as he walks into the room, it’s bathed in the same fluorescent light as the communications room. He also realizes that this is one of the rooms being monitored. This is the Entry Area from the monitor. He looks up, at the wall above the hall entrance and sees a camera pointed out at the rest of the room. Maybe all of the cameras are positioned like this, above the main entry point. He sees the door with the key card access to the east, the metal bulkhead to the west, and the alcove with the smaller door to the northwest. He shivers, feeling the cold even more here than he has in the rest of the facility. He nervously picks his feet up, trying to get rid of the bitter feeling the cold was giving him. He looks around and considers the metal bulkhead. There’s a keypad on the wall next to it. But other than that, it looks just like the other one. Will he get the same sort of visions as he had from the other metal door? Should he even try? Does he _want_ to try? He cautiously steps over to the door, reaching up to touch it, but stopping just shy of the surface. Sighing, he realizes that he _has_ _to_ try it. He can’t just wander around in ignorance. If he wants to know what happened, then he has to commit to finding out any way he can. He will have to try everything he can think of to remember what happened here and who he is, and that includes these insane visions. He lets his hand move those last few inches to touch the freezing metal, feeling it leech into his skin before he’s struck by another blinding headache. He closes his eyes, but manages to rest both hands against the cold metal to brace himself as he sees the pendulum swing. Swoosh. Swoosh. Swoosh.

> _I turn around, away from the bulkhead, when I hear the voices. There are four people in the entry area now. Three of them are standing in the middle of the room: two men and a woman. The woman, the same woman from before, is smiling softly, her chestnut brown hair loose as it had been in the earlier scene, falling to mid-back. The man from earlier is also smiling, but his is more forced, sharp, like he doesn’t like that he has to be here or why they’re actually here. The third man is an older, distinguished looking black man, his dark hair obviously greying. His eyes almost predatory, a toothy grin on his face as he reaches a hand out to the fourth person in the room, “We’re so glad you could make it, Mr. Graham. I’ve heard so much about your talents, I think they’ll be of great use for the project.”_
> 
> _The newcomer, Mr. Graham, is standing in front of the smaller door, his eyes shifting from person to person, but barely visible behind his glasses. It’s like he’s avoiding looking at any one of them for too long. His chocolate brown hair is cropped close to his head, the hint of curls visible, but not allowed at the length it is currently. He’s dressed in khaki slacks and a blue plaid button-down. The most notable things about the man are the scar on his right cheek, a large scar shaped almost like a star burst, and his eyes. His bright blue eyes settle somewhere close to the older man’s chin when he turns his attention to him, as if he’s gearing up to speak, but the other man speaks again, “We’ve met before, of course, but you haven’t yet met the other members of our team. I know I’ve mentioned them briefly in our correspondence, but let me introduce Dr. Frederick Chilton, general administrator for the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, and Dr. Alana Bloom, professor of psychiatry and consultant to the FBI. I, as you know, am Jack Crawford, head of the Experimental Behavioral Sciences Unit.”_
> 
> _Dr. Bloom smiles, a bright, welcoming smile as she extends a hand, “Mr. Graham, I’ve read a lot about you and your work. I’d love to have a moment to speak with you while you’re here. It’s not every day one meets someone with your gifts.”_
> 
> _Mr. Graham hesitates before accepting her hand, “I’m not sure I’d call it a gift.”_
> 
> _“Wouldn’t you?” Dr. Chilton cuts in, staring hungrily now at the man, “Such pure empathy that you can understand the viewpoint of anyone. That’s certainly something I would like to hear more about. For example, how does it feel when you assume the point of view of a monster, Mr. Graham?”_
> 
> _“Frederick,” Crawford barked, “That’s enough.”_
> 
> _Dr. Bloom turns a gentle smile back to the newcomer, “Contrary to your first experience with us, we’re not usually this formal, or this bothersome. Please, call me Alana.”_
> 
> _“In that case, I’d prefer you call me Will,” Graham tells her, just realizing he’s still holding her hand and yanks his away with little sense of decorum._
> 
> _“Well, Will,” Dr. Chilton frowns, looking between him and Dr. Bloom, “I can show you around the facility. I’d like to get to know you a little better. I wasn’t expecting to be thrown in with someone so-”_
> 
> _“Frederick!” Crawford interrupts, his voice even colder now than it had been before. The other man stops and turns a glare at Crawford, earning one in return. Crawford waits until Chilton turns away, sulking, before he speaks again, “I think that’s enough for introductions. Will, if you follow me, I’ll show you to your room and let you settle in a little before debriefing. I’ll come fetch you for that and then we can tour the rest of the facility.”_
> 
> _I watch as Crawford walks to the wall and presses a small, nearly invisible panel next to the northwest door. The door immediately slides open. He walks through, Will following obediently on his heels. Chilton sulks in the middle of the room and Alana’s eyes follow Will as he leaves. The pendulum swings and the image fades._

He opens his eyes again and looks around the room, almost expecting to see the specters of the others, but that had been long ago. The room looks the same. It looks exactly the same, though why he was expecting anything else, he doesn’t know. He walks, determined, to the northwest door, pushing the button Crawford had in his vision. The door slides open, revealing a kind of antechamber. It’s less bitterly cold than the previous rooms had been, a little more welcoming. He takes the step up into the room, continuing into the next room, finding himself in the Round Room. He hadn’t been able to see it on the monitor in the communications room, but there is a skylight here, as there had been in the atrium, or Center. While the atrium had felt colder with the outside light, this room feels more open. He steps onto the shag carpeting, which instantly soothes his feet from the cold tile. It may not be too pretty to look at, but it certainly helps protect against the temperature. Not to say that it’s actually _warm_ , but it’s only cold rather than bitterly so.

As he remembers from the monitors, the room has five doors. He walks around the room to see the plaques marking the Cardinal rooms, as he’s come to think of them: the rooms to the north, south, east, and west. He looks first at the plaque marking the room to the east. _Frederick Chilton_. He sneers. That man seemed like an enormous ass, and that was just from the last vision. The first one had him feeling sorry for the man, but now he was wondering if he had it coming. He remembers the look on his face as he stared at Graham. Hunger. Such a look of…possession. He shivers, disturbed again by the look the other man had given the newcomer. Yeah, maybe the man angered the wrong person. That seems pretty believable. He opens the door, only a little surprised to find it unlocked. He’s more surprised, though, by the mess he finds inside. It’s obviously a bedroom, but that’s almost all he can tell by looking. Well, other than that there had been some kind of fight or struggle that is. The bedding has been ripped from the mattress and thrown to the floor. The mattress itself is crooked on the bed frame, with little tears in the fabric of the quilted top. What was previously a dresser is now little more than kindling. Its drawers ripped away and thrown around the room, clothing from inside is torn and scattered. A glass-doored bookcase was knocked to its side, one door ripped from its hinges, the other barely hanging on. Books lay in a mess on the floor. There’s a doorway leading to what he can see is a bathroom along the north wall. He doesn’t really want to fight through the mess to see what is probably even more mess in the bathroom, so he looks around through the clothes, books, and other junk lying around on the ground. He considers, briefly, changing into something more substantial than the thin, white scrubs and t-shirt he’s in, but decides against it when he sees the options Chilton has. Definitely not looking more comfortable than what he has on. Warmer? Perhaps, but that won’t make up for the starchy feel of the clothes, reminding him of the absent man they belonged, or belong, to. The man certainly seems to be more concerned with how he looks than how he behaves, from what he can tell so far. He pokes around a little more, moving some of the books to see if there’s anything else underneath them. It looks as though someone had been searching for something, with no care to being caught. He turns around to look at the bed again and sees a little white plastic card peeping out from beneath a pile of sheets. He didn’t pay a lot of attention to the key card slots, but he imagines all four of the staff have access, and that they take the same cards. He grabs the card and looks around a little more before heading back into the communal round room. He checks the north door plaque. _William Graham_. This is the new guy. He tries the door, but it’s locked. He checks the south plaque. _Alana Bloom_. Also locked. He’s not really surprised that either door would be locked. She lives with several men, so obviously she’d want her privacy. William, Will, he was the new guy, and seemed to be a bit shy anyway, so he can imagine he’d lock the door too. The west door opens, easily, like Chilton’s. He checks the plaque before going in, just to make sure. _Jack Crawford_.

Jack’s room is pretty much what he had been expecting when he went into Chilton’s. It’s only a little more welcoming than the rest of the facility, not revealing anything about its owner at first glance. The bed is perfectly made, edges folded and tucked, ivory sheets adding a kind of elegance to the room that had definitely been missing in the other man’s room. There’s an antique desk in the corner, next to it a dresser and bookcase. The bathroom door is open, revealing that it, also, is immaculate. He again considers finding new clothes to wear, but, based on what he had seen in his vision, he doesn’t think Crawford has anything he would want to wear. He had been in a suit, a rather formal looking suit, not even business casual. He walks over to the bookcase, checking out what books the older man has. Some are on profiling, others on behavioral modification, and more on medication assisted behavioral treatment. He shivers at those. Behavior modification? Maybe that’s what they were doing here. Crawford _had_ said he was head of the _Experimental_ Behavioral Sciences Unit. Maybe the _experimental_ part was being conducted here. That would explain the last transmission. Evacuation could have been necessary if a test subject didn’t turn out as planned. Though, if that’s what they _were_ doing, he wonders how they were doing it. There are several books on medication assisted modification and treatment. He shudders again thinking about the work that could be happening here.

Next, he looks at the desk. There are several drawers and built-in cubbies. The strange thing is that it’s almost completely clear. Nothing, other than a notepad. Even the drawers are empty. The notepad only has the number “ **55** ” in blue ink, written in spikey handwriting. He glances around the room one more time before leaving, shutting the door behind him. Once again in the common room, he tries the northwest door, but it, too, is locked. He sighs, then speaks aloud, “I suppose it’s too much to think there’d be a map of the place just hanging up.”

There’s a sharp burst of pain in his head as he tries to figure out which one of the men, if any, he sounds like. Maybe he shouldn’t try to force it. Though, he could rule out Crawford. Obviously he wasn’t Alana. Obviously. And if the first vision truly did happen, he could rule out Chilton. That left Graham. Will Graham. He doesn’t hate the name, but he still doesn’t quite know if it’s _his_. Maybe he’s someone else entirely.


	3. It's Far Easier To Find His Way Back To Where He Started

In fact, it was so much easier that he kind of hoped this is all there is to the facility, even if he knows better. There are too many doors for it to be so small. He hadn’t seen the north hall well at all when he first woke up, thanks to the dimness of the emergency lighting, and he figures that maybe he should see the rest of the open areas before unlocking any doors and exploring new areas. Hopefully Chilton had, and still has, access to the rooms, otherwise he’ll be stuck where he is and it won’t really matter how big the facility truly is. The current situation, though, presents him with yet another dead end. The north end of the hall ends in a door with… _something_ , some kind of lock, connected to the handle and door frame, but there is a door with key card access to the west. Might as well start opening doors now. There’s nowhere else to go, he thinks, mentally crossing his fingers as he tries the card. He tries inserting the card and quickly pulling it out, like a hotel key card, but it doesn’t work. He leaves the thought about hotel cards, memories and knowledge will come when they come, so he really shouldn’t force it. He doesn’t at all like the consequences when he forces it. Headaches that precede the visions are different. At least, in those cases, he feels like he’s paying for the knowledge he’s receiving.

He turns his attention away from his thoughts and back to the door. He tries again, inserting the card and leaving it in until there’s a slight beep and the sound of a latch opening. He pulls the key card out at the same time as he opens the door, just in case removing the card triggers the locking mechanism. He then continues as he had with the other doors: cautiously. He still doesn’t know what happened here or what sort of project had been going on, but he _does_ know that Crawford has all kinds of books on behavior modification and that Alana and Chilton had both been doctors of some kind, Alana a professor of psychiatry and Chilton an administrator for a mental hospital. A mental hospital for the _criminally insane_. He thinks it a point worth reiterating. Those things support his theory pretty well. Along with the fact that Crawford was leading up an experimental unit with Behavioral Sciences. It sounds just swell.

Opening the door fully, he peeks inside. The room is dark, but he slowly feels along the wall to try to find a light switch, immediately flicking it on when he finds it. He blinks slowly, letting his eyes adjust, which happened much quicker this time than previously. The lights reveal a room filled by a curved desk, lining the other three walls. Each side is set up as its own autonomous station, though it seems as though the two computers present may be linked together, or, he assumes, at least to the same network. The part of the desk directly in front of him doesn’t have a computer, just a short filing cabinet on the tabletop and a safe underneath. The other two stations have chairs and computers set up. One of the computers is already booted up, displaying a black screen and flashing white cursor. He turns around to look at the safe, bending down to get a closer look. It has two dials that each have numbers 0-9. Remembering the “ **55** ” written on Crawford’s notepad, he spins the dials, pleased when the safe pops open. The only thing inside is a metal key. He reaches out and grabs the key, a headache immediately overcoming him, his vision fading as the pendulum swings.

> _I can see Crawford and Alana in the room. Alana is standing near the door, shifting nervously on her feet, Crawford bent down over the safe. Crawford closes the safe door and spins the dials to lose the code. He looks older here, not in age necessarily, but in wear. He looks like he has been through some tough times, showing every one of those in the lines on his face and grey hairs on his head._
> 
> _“Alright, now everything should be ready. We’ve closed all the doors and shut off the water. I’ll send out one last message and shut off the power as well. You should go out to the courtyard, the helicopter has been prepared and is ready to go. I’ll lock up when I leave, but you should go ahead,” Crawford says, his voice still strong, authoritative._
> 
> _“Jack,” Alana hesitates, “What about-”_
> 
> _“We can’t think about that,” he cuts her off, “This is it, this is the way it has to be. It’s over, Alana. The damage, it’s catastrophic at best, and the only thing we can do now is escape. You know I don’t take this lightly. If I thought the project was salvageable, I would do it in a heartbeat, but this is our only option. I didn’t think about what could happen when we started this, and I wish I had. That’s the thing about hindsight, isn’t it? 20/20. If only we could have seen what would come of this before it happened. Now, all we can do is seal off the Ripper project, destroy all the research, and try to forget this chapter of our lives.”_
> 
> _Alana stays silent, meeting Crawford’s eyes steadily, never wavering. She’s letting her eyes berate him, chastise him, judge him. The room is silent until Crawford lets out a weary sigh, whispering, “Alana, there are two demons loose now. You can blame me all you want, but you need to leave. There’s nothing else we can do now.”_
> 
> _She stiffens, her eyes widening briefly before she turns on her heel and walks away. A soft sobbing coming from the hall. Crawford stares after her for a few moments before moving to the computer terminal, typing out his last message. The pendulum swings again, and Jack Crawford fades from my sight._

When he opens his eyes again, he realizes he’s sitting on the floor, his back resting against the safe. The key looks like it might open the locks in the residential area. Or maybe it’s a master key? He’d really like it if it was the master key. Things would be so much easier. He scoffs, like things would be any easier with what seems to be happening in his life right now. Standing, he opens the filing drawers, but they’re empty, so he turns back to the computer terminal, deciding to see if it can answer a query. He types out a question and hits **ENTER**.

 **Ask** :    _ **What is the Ripper Project?**_

He stares at the screen, watching the cursor blink at the end of his question. A few seconds later, the cursor jumps to the next line and starts typing out an answer.

 **Records** :       ** _Ripper Project: Facility commissioned by the Experimental Behavioral Sciences Unit for drug assisted behavioral modification trials codenamed the “Ripper Project”. Purpose of the project is to provide an alternative to lifelong imprisonment of incarcerated felons judged to be criminally insane. Facility is manned by four personnel, who will remain in residence. Provisions delivered monthly via air-drop. Facility is divided into three main areas – residential area, lab area, and specimen gallery._**

“Oh God,” he whispers quietly. He had been on the right track. They _were, are,_ working on a, or even multiple, behavior modification project. Or just one project. He reads the words on the screen again, muttering, “‘Purpose of the project is to provide an alternative to lifelong imprisonment of incarcerated felons judged to be criminally insane.’ Yeah, sounds like a great idea, nothing could go wrong there…”

He types another question, not quite sure he truly wants to know but believing that he _needs_ to, and hits **ENTER**.

 **Ask** :    _ **What is the Specimen Gallery?**_

The computer responds immediately.

 **Records** :        _**Specimen Gallery: The Facility contains an atrium gallery of cages for the advancement of the Ripper Project. Specimens are maintained and studied in the Gallery. Currently, one specimen is listed as active in the Ripper Project.**_

Biting his lip, he tries to decide how much he wants to know. If he’s part of the project, he thinks he might be a little disgusted with himself. He shakes his head, deciding that since he’s come this far, he might as well continue.

 **Ask** :    _ **What is the specimen in the Ripper Project?**_

It took the computer a few seconds longer this time, but it types out the response. He closes his eyes for a moment before opening them, not quite ready to read the response. He takes several deep breaths as he tries to bring himself to read the response. It’s going to be a person. This place was built for trials. If he were in a more “rainbows and sunshine” frame of mind, he might even think that it was just animal trials, but nothing he’s seen or heard so far makes him believe that would be even remotely true. Sure, that may have been the first step, but now, in this kind of facility, there would be human trials. He knows the records are going to tell him about a person. A _person_. How can they think that behavior modification is something that could work, especially with that population? Criminally insane felons. He opens his eyes and reads on.

 **Records** :        _ **Ripper Project Specimen: One specimen is currently listed as active in the Ripper Project. Specimen 1327 – Hannibal Lecter, formerly of Baltimore, Maryland. Aged 46 years. Formerly a psychiatrist. Formerly a surgeon. Specimen donated by the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Incarcerated for – the murders of 45 people. For full list of crimes and victims, please hit SPACE BAR.**_

Eyes wide, he doesn’t really know where to start with his thoughts as he reads the information on the screen. A murderer. Their test subject is a murderer. How could this project be sanctioned by the FBI? _How_? They’re supporting a project that is, at best, cruel and unusual punishment, and at worst…well, he can’t really think of a worst case scenario here, other than the death of everyone involved after…

He blinks. The first vision. Chilton said something had gotten out. Their experiment on the…specimen…had gone wrong. Maybe it, he, Hannibal Lecter, had gotten out and decided he would up his body count? He knows nothing about the kind of modifications that are, or were, going on here, but they can’t have been pleasant for…the specimen. He gets angry every time he thinks like that. _The specimen_ is a person. He considers asking the records about the…Chilton had called it a Wendigo. He’s here, he may as well just go for it. He types in his question.

 **Ask:**     _**What is the Wendigo?**_

The computer makes a few whirring noises before the cursor flashes and starts to type out an answer.

 **Records:**        _ **The Wendigo is an evil spirit believed by Algonquin-based Native American tribes to possess humans, turning them into cannibals. Typically depicted as human-like in appearance, but tall and gaunt with decaying skin, possessing an insatiable hunger and craving only human flesh. Cannibalism is most commonly associated with the Wendigo as that is the best known way of becoming one.**_

He shivers at the answer he receives. It doesn’t actually give him information about the Wendigo in the context of the project, but the myth of it is frightening without thinking about what it could mean to the project. What he needs, though, is more information. Maybe he can find it back in the residence area. They were apparently the group assigned to the project, so they should have more information. There are still a lot of questions about the whole situation, not even just about who he is or why he’s here. He’s wondering more and more if he is Will Graham. Though, he _could_ be Hannibal Lecter. The _specimen_. It would explain his revulsion at the thought of the man, even a convicted killer, as a specimen. Naturally he wouldn’t like the idea of himself being a test subject. One who didn’t have a choice on whether or not he would be involved with such a project. Unfortunately, the information from the records hadn’t included a photograph. All he would have to do is look in a mirror to determine whether or not he was Hannibal Lecter if it had. Though, he could still do that, but to see if he is Will Graham. He’s seen Graham in his visions. The scar would be a giveaway, that’s for sure. It was starting to make more and more sense to him as he thinks about it. Everyone else is gone. Crawford had said he was going to seal the project off. To seal everything up. Of course he’d be stuck here if he was Lecter. No one cares about saving a science project gone wrong.

At this point, he decides to go back to the residences and try to unlock the doors there. He has a key that, hopefully, should work on the doors there. He hasn’t come across any other doors that just have a simple key lock. The rest have been key cards or more complicated. He can look around in Alana’s and Will’s rooms and see if anything sparks another vision.

It seems as if all he has is questions, never any answers. Even the answers he received from the records brought up even more questions. Unfortunately, all he’s expecting from his visit in the residences is even _more_ questions. He keeps hoping he’ll at least get answers to a few questions along the way, but he’ll have to wait and see.


	4. It's Almost Like A Real Person Lives Here

He had made his way back to the residence area and debated on which room to try first, though it hadn’t taken any convincing to choose the room of Dr. Alana Bloom. If nothing else, the curiosity of her being the only woman on the research team made him far more curious about her than he was about Will Graham, though he’s willing to admit that it might be more to the fact that he found himself drawn to her. The visions had shown him a woman who was friendly and warm, and, since he was being honest, quite beautiful. He wanted to see if that was reflected in her residence, and it was. Her room is eons apart from the ruin in Chilton’s room and the order in Crawford’s. Her room has a feeling of warmth, a hominess that’s been missing in the other rooms. She had done something with the furniture and bedding, little, subtle changes to reflect more of her personality. There’s even a soft scent of lavender in the room. There are no flowers, so it must be her perfume. It’s far from the sterile environment the rest of the facility presented, even though it uses the same foundation.

The room is set up just like the others: a bed, a bookcase, dresser, and desk. The bathroom as an ensuite. He notices the source of the smell sitting on top of the dresser. A small bottle of perfume. Reaching out, he gently touches it, wanting to spray more of the welcoming scent in the air, but as soon as he so much as grazes it, he feels the familiar pain coming as the pendulum begins to swing.

> _I can hear soft voices, quiet, but also gentle. I turn around and see Will and Alana sitting beside each other on the bed. They look a little disheveled. They both also look uncomfortable. Alana has a hand resting on Will’s knee, “I’m sorry, but we can’t do this anymore, Will.”_
> 
> _Will jerks away from her touch, his eyes narrowed, but actively avoiding her, “Why not? We’ve already done it.”_
> 
> _Alana sighs, running a hand through her hair, “Will, you’re not stable. The whole reason you’re here is exactly why we can’t. I’m sorry for the part I played, if you feel I was leading you on. If things were different…”_
> 
> _“You mean if I weren’t the way I am?” Will asks bitterly, a grim chuckle escaping him, “If I couldn’t do what you want me to do? Don’t try to play it off like it’s because we’re working together. That has nothing to do with this. What do you mean when you say if I feel like you led me on? What else would you call it?”_
> 
> _“You’re right, and I’m sorry,” she agrees immediately, “Us working together isn’t the problem. I wasn’t thinking before, but I’ve had time to think about it now, and I don’t think you, we are in the right place for a relationship.”_
> 
> _“You think I’m unstable,” Will says flatly, focusing back on her previous point, “You think I’m unstable and that, what? I can’t have a relationship? Who are you to say I’m unstable?”_
> 
> _“You are unstable, Will,” she tells him softly, but firmly. I’m chilled by the near accusation in Alana’s voice. She continues, “If you weren’t…if you didn’t have-”_
> 
> _“You’re really going play that card?” He demands, standing up and moving away from the bed, eyes darting around the room, “If I didn’t have an empathy disorder, then we could be together? It didn’t seem like such a problem yesterday, or an hour ago when you asked me to meet you here. Or weeks ago, when you first asked me to meet you here. Or any of the times in between. What happened between then and now?”_
> 
> _“I realized how much more valuable you are for the project,” Alana says with a shrug, her face arranged to show sympathy, but I can’t quite tell if it’s real._
> 
> _Will stops his pacing and, for the first time, meets Alana’s eyes, “You were using me for the project. You were using me to get me to volunteer. Sure, you protested, but that was probably just for my benefit, right? I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. I can’t believe it. Stupid, Graham.”_
> 
> _Alana stands, reaching out as if to comfort Will but he moves away quickly, not giving her a chance. He shakes his head in disbelief, eyes staring hard at the woman in front of him, “I can’t believe I didn’t see it. Jack wanted you to play bait, didn’t he? He thought if you were more open to my…advances that I’d be more willing to go along with everything.”_
> 
> _The look on Alana’s face makes me believe he’s right. Her mouth opens several times, as if she’s trying to say something but can’t force the words. She’s saved from coming up with any defense when the door latch suddenly clicks and the door opens. Will and Alana both turn to the newcomer, but everything fades before I can see who it is. The pendulum swings, and it’s gone._

He finds himself sitting in the same spot on the bed as the couple had been when he opens his eyes again. Had she really been taking advantage of Graham’s attraction to her to get him to go along with the project? He assumes they’re talking about the Ripper Project. What had they wanted the man to do that they thought such coercion was necessary? That certainly made him more interested in Will Graham. A man with an empathy disorder participating in a project to provide alternative methods to the criminally insane. Even just the thought of that made him worry for the man’s own sanity. He’s surprised to realize that he knows a lot about empathy disorders, namely that in extreme cases, it can present as pure empathy. Someone who can understand _anyone_. What exactly would they want of such a man?

He looks around the room a little more, satisfied that he isn’t missing anything before going back to the common room. He stands in front of Will Graham’s door for a few minutes, not sure why he’s so nervous to go inside. Shaking himself, he unlocks the door and steps inside. As soon as he’s breached the threshold, he feels off. There’s something about the room that’s …disconcerting. The same furniture is here, but it’s missing the warmth of Alana’s room and the order of Crawford’s. It isn’t as ruined as Chilton’s, but there are certain things he notices that are worse. While the glass doors on the bookcase are only cracked here and the sheets are haphazardly thrown about, the more disturbing thing is the trail of blood from the bathroom door to the entrance. One of the dresser drawers is pulled almost completely out. He walks over to push it back in but is hit with a vision as he walks farther into the room. The pendulum is starting to become almost comforting in its sway.

> _The room is set to rights, no mess, no blood. I can see Will sitting at the desk, Jack pacing across the room, talking at the other man._
> 
> _“Everything we do is confidential. I’m sure you already know,” Jack tells him patronizingly, but almost too serious at the same time, “otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Everyone here has signed a non-disclosure agreement. This isn’t just something we can release to the public and expect them to accept and be excited about. The general public doesn’t get it. They don’t know what we do for them, for their protection, for the betterment of society. The general public are superstitious and bloodthirsty at times. They want to know justice has been served. We want to be able to serve justice, but also to take it several steps farther. They will never know the how of the matter, all they want is the result. The end justifies the means, Will. We have a thankless task ahead of us, but we’re all committed. Are you committed? Because we need you. We need you to be committed. Whatever it takes. Can you do that?”_
> 
> _Will looks at the older man and swallows thickly, using his glasses to shield his eyes, “I-I just want to help people.”_
> 
> _“You will,” Jack tells him with a nod, something in his eyes shining, as if he’s proud of Will, “and not just one or two people, but the whole country, maybe even the world. All you need to do is commit yourself to the project. Can you do that?”_
> 
> _Nodding, Will swallows again, “Y-yes. I can do it. Though I do have concerns about-”_
> 
> _“That’s what I like to hear,” Jack talks over him, moving close to drop a hand on his shoulder, making Will flinch. Jack waits several moments for Will to focus in the direction of his face, “Now, I want to address one other thing, because I’m sure it will come up.”_
> 
> _Will is staring at the bridge of the older man’s nose, avoiding his eyes as best he can when Jack is trying his hardest to meet his eyes. I can see that Crawford wants to make a big deal out of it, but he lets it go and continues, “You’ll soon hear, as I’m sure Frederick can’t wait to tell you all about it, the unfortunate circumstances that led to your being here. As you know, there are only four personnel allowed to reside at the facility at any given time. The circumstances surrounding your arrival were the unfortunate death of Miriam Lass. Miriam was an agent with the Experimental Behavioral Analysis Unit, my best agent in fact. Her death was…an unfortunate event, but sometimes things happen that we can’t exactly prevent. She was perhaps too devoted to a frame of mind too narrow for the work we do here. She couldn't take the pressure and chose to end her own life by jumping from the terrace of the upper Specimen Gallery. We did what we could to try to revive her, but she was dead.”_
> 
> _Jack is looking at Will as if he’s waiting for a certain reaction. The only thing that gives away his approval at not seeing it is a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. With no reaction, Jack speaks again, “Now that our secret is out, we can move on and keep doing the work we need to do. There are a few more things to review in terms of paperwork, so if you would come with me, we can…”_
> 
> _With a low hum, the scene fades and the pendulum swings, taking me back._

He is definitely getting better at this. There’s barely even a residual headache after the visions anymore. There’s nothing on the desk, and the dresser just has clothes. He glances down at himself. He still feels the chill, but it’s something he’s gotten used to, is expecting, but maybe there’s something in Will’s room he can wear. He digs through the drawers. The top one is all boxer briefs and socks. He grabs a thick pair of socks and quickly rolls them on, immediately feeling relief. The next drawer has t-shirts in varying colors, mostly black and white though, and flannel button down shirts. He grabs one of the flannels, a nice blue, long-sleeved one that looks well-worn and comfortable. As he had with the socks, he puts it on straight away, over his own white t-shirt. It has the same effect the socks had. The third drawer holds several pairs of jeans, some dark wash, some lighter. He paws through, trying to find a heavy pair, already knowing they’ll be significantly warmer than his white scrub pants. Once he’s dressed in Will’s clothes, he feels almost normal. With the exception of the lack of memory, that is. He doesn’t feel like he’s a hospital patient anymore, which is nice. It definitely helps that these are a lot warmer than what he’d been wearing before. It also helps that they’re not pretentious, like Chilton’s, or strictly business, like Crawford’s. That taken care of, he walks over to the bathroom door, attempting to open it, but it’s stuck. He tries again, but it stays shut. Looking closer, he realizes the door is…it looks like it had been slammed shut so hard it somehow became stuck in the dented steel frame. Shaking his head, he pokes at it, looking at it from different angles, but can’t come up with a single way that could have happened. Whatever slammed it shut had been incredibly strong.

Having looked around as much as possible, all the while ignoring the terrifying blood stains on the floor, he goes back into the common room, ready to try the last door, the northwest door. Luckily, the key he found must be the master key, at least for the residential area, and it allows him to open the door. He walks in and is pleased to find himself in a dining room, which appears to double as a conference room. There’s a counter that runs the length of the entire wall in front of him, with a coffeemaker, toaster oven, microwave, a propane camping stove, and electric kettle on top, along the wall. There are cabinets above the countertop, and a refrigerator on another wall, next to a sink. The center of the room holds a large square table with four chairs, one per side. There is a calendar pinned to a cork board on the wall next to the counter, and a doorway to the southwest leading to a pantry, or storage room.

He walks over to the counter, wanting to see if the cabinets hold any food, because he’s…well, he isn’t actually hungry. But he thinks he should be. He doesn’t even know how long he’s been here, how long it’s been since he woke up, or how long before that since he’d eaten. There are no clocks anywhere he’s seen so far. It’s almost like they don’t want anyone to know how much time is passing. It’s strange now that he’s really thinking about it. He should be hungry, but he isn’t. Well, he considers, that doesn't mean I can't eat or see what there _is_ to eat. Opening one of the cabinets, he discovers several boxes of instant oatmeal, some boxes of crackers, a lot of ramen noodles, cans of broth, canned vegetables, macaroni and cheese, bags of rice, Bisquick, canned fruits, boxes of muffin mix, and Jello mixes. Another cabinet holds plates, glasses, mugs, powdered creamer, and several tins of coffee grounds. The last cabinet contains pots, pans, casserole dishes, Saran Wrap, aluminum foil, and Tupperware containers. Nothing is really all that appealing. He walks over to the refrigerator to see what’s in there, but spots something on top of it. He reaches up and feels around until he can grab a handle. He starts dragging the thing toward him, carefully lowering what he now realizes is a tool box and looks inside. The top tray holds medical supplies. He lifts it out and looks at the tools underneath, feeling the immediate, tell-tale signs of a vision coming on. He watches, almost bored now, as the pendulum swings.

> _I turn around to see the room as soon as I hear a chair scrape the tiles. Chilton is slouched in one of the chairs, Jack kneeling in front of him as he rips the other man’s slacks to the knee so he can examine the damage. When he moves the pant leg out of the way, I can see that Chilton has an artificial leg. It’s damaged, wires and pins sticking out, the joint twisted. Jack seems to know what to do, and manages to fix it with little to no trouble. I see Alana pacing in front of the counter, holding her clasped hand in front of her mouth, gaze fixed on something, or nothing, but not paying any attention to the men._
> 
> _Chilton groans, closing his eyes. He doesn’t seem to be in a lot of pain, more like he’s just tired, “It was very strange, Jack. It just slipped in, grabbed the vial, threw it down, and ran. You know Will isn’t safe out there either. We made that drug, we know, I know what it can do. It’s not safe for any of us out there anymore. Look at what he’s done! We need to get out of here!”_
> 
> _“Look, Frederick,” Jack began, keeping his eyes on the work, but I can see his knuckles go white with tension, “we weren’t prepared for quite this reaction. We didn’t know he would respond like this. We didn’t know he would deteriorate that quickly. For him to attack like this, to kill, and unprovoked-”_
> 
> _“For God’s sake,” Alana interrupts furiously, her eyes shooting daggers at Jack, “How can you call that unprovoked?! You refused to give him a break. You forced him, time and time again, to go in there and ‘do what needs to be done’. How the hell can you call that unprovoked? Just because you weren't expecting it? Get real, Jack. You refused to give him the cure! What more provocation does he need? If we, no, if you hadn't-”_
> 
> _“You’re blaming me? Really?” Jack stands, now finished repairing Frederick’s prosthetic, his eyes cold as he stares at Alana, “Alana, you were the one who was in charge of making sure that thing-”_
> 
> _Alana’s gasp of disgust interrupts him, but he shakes his head and continues, “Yes, I think that we can now say ‘thing’ or even ‘specimen’ and either would be more correct than ‘man’. But you were in charge of making sure it was secure. You were in charge of making sure it was calm and taken care of.”_
> 
> _“I did!” Alana insists, her hands wave angrily in front of her, “I did take care of him. I made sure he was secure. Against all my instincts, I made sure I followed through with the project. Because the project comes first, right, Jack?”_
> 
> _His eyes are hard as he stares, “Then how did it get out?”_
> 
> _There’s a long, uncomfortable silence._
> 
> _“There’s a slight possibility that I didn’t remember the lock when I last brought him food,” her voice is even as she confesses. It seems like they all know that she never wanted to be the prison guard. She has far too much compassion for that, even with their history. She couldn’t just leave him there, locked up like an animal. He was being treated that way by the others, but she couldn’t stand it and refused to treat him like that herself._
> 
> _Frederick waves a hand, as if to clear the air, ending the tense silence that has yet again descended on the room, “It’s pointless to keep arguing over this, so why don't we instead focus on what we’re going to do next?”_
> 
> _Jack raises a brow at the other man, who is even now trying to be commanding, silently asking what he thinks they should do next. Frederick speaks again, “I don't know, and we have yet to test, how strong the security is around the Gallery. We could try to nullify the Wendigo formula and administer the cure as soon as we can to-”_
> 
> _“No,” Jack interrupts, folding his arms across his chest, “We’re not going to do that. We have orders. I have orders. We’re to follow this through to the end. Nothing will stop this. Nothing.”_
> 
> _Alana and Frederick stare at Jack, both surprised at the man’s vehement rejection of an idea that could actually get them all out of there. Possibly. Frederick’s mouth twists into a near snarl and he reaches up to grab a fistful of Jack’s suit jacket, dragging the other man closer as he growls in his face, “You don’t understand, Jack. There’s a criminally insane specimen still in this building, aside from our other, more pressing concern of the crazy, homicidal thing that got free and is now roaming around who knows where in this facility. Also someone I would deem criminally insane. As if that wasn’t enough, we had to compound it by testing the Wendigo formula, which has never been quite stable enough until your desperation brought us there. It’s on you, Jack, if this thing does any further damage. It’s on you that it’s in this condition to begin with. Consider this, though. If that thing alone doesn't kill us, they both will once they find each other. If you keep us on this course, we’ll all die here. Why can't you see that? We never should have brought him, much less both of them here!”_
> 
> _“I think you're overreacting, as usual, Frederick,” Jack says simply, forcibly removing the other man’s grip from his jacket, “If we weren't capable of dealing with a crisis, we wouldn't be here. This doesn't warrant a breach of protocol, especially when such a breach would destroy any chance of this project coming to completion. Will, I will admit, may be lost to us, but I won’t give up until we know for sure. As for the other specimen…there’s nothing we can do about that. Him. But that doesn't mean our orders have changed. I have an idea, so listen…”_
> 
> _Frederick is shaking his head, unwilling to listen to the man who refused to even consider their concerns. He slowly stands, shooting one last glare at Jack, and leaves the room, staggering on his damaged leg as he goes. His angry snarls heard over his shoulder, “You’ll see, Jack. You'll soon see how right I am. When the Wendigo and Ripper find each other, and they will, you'll be dead soon after, if for no other reason than keeping them apart.”_
> 
> _Everything fades as Frederick hobbles out the door. Alana turns to face Jack, but it’s gone before I can hear anything more. The pendulum swings, releasing me from the vision’s grip._

The dining area comes back into view as he staggers back against the fridge. Something had happened to Will. To…probably him. They were worried about two…creatures. Things. Chilton had said the Wendigo and Ripper would find each other. He’s nearly positive he’s one of the two. Why else would he be wandering around as he is? Jack had finally given in and declared the project a failure as they were on their way out. He’s curious what happened to Chilton. He doesn’t like the man, at all, from what he's seen so far, but that doesn't mean he wants to discover he’s dead. He shakes the vision off, remembering the information and tucking it away for the time being, but he needs to keep looking. He knows he's getting closer and closer with every vision, but he also knows there's still a lot of the facility left to explore. Like the Specimen Gallery.

He doesn't see anything else of interest in the dining area, so he moves on to check out the pantry. Once he steps in, he realizes it is more storage than just a pantry. Sure, there are bags of flour and sugar, vegetable and olive oils, cans of condensed milk, paper towels, toilet paper, and so on, but it’s also storage for more tools than were in the tool kit from on top of the fridge. That one must have been tools for Chilton’s leg, which now makes sense, then, that they’re in with medical supplies. There's an exhaust fan in the ceiling, making soft screeching, whirring noises. It’s like it is trying to circulate the air even a little, but it does nothing to ward against the damp chill. If anything, it makes it worse. It almost feels like a filmy layer is forming on his skin. Glad he changed clothes, he moves to look at the rough looking metal shelves staggered throughout the room. Rust is obvious on several of the shelves, but they are all filled with canned goods and other non-perishable food stuffs. It looks like more of the same things from the dining area cabinets. One of the walls holds a pegboard, where a variety of tools are hanging. Thinking back on the “creatures” that were, maybe even still are, roaming around, ignoring the probability that he’s one of them, he grabs the nearest thing that’s small enough to carry easily, a flathead screwdriver, and tucks it into his back pocket, managing to brace himself against one of the shelves when he’s taken off guard by the sudden whoosh of the pendulum.

> _“Hey, Will.”_
> 
> _I turn around to see Will standing in the doorway of the storage room, his eyes following Alana as she moves to empty cans out of boxes, setting them on shelves. She smiles gently at him, “Frederick get ahold of you? Or did you get a tour from Jack?”_
> 
> _Will steps closer, returning her smile with a slight grimace, “Frederick wanted to, but Jack managed to get me out of there pretty quickly to take me around himself. Is he always like that?”_
> 
> _“Which one?” She jokes, her smile growing before she answers, “They're both like that all the time, yes. Jack has a lot of drive and passion for the project, and Frederick, well, he always wants to be thought of as at the forefront of the field. This project gives him that.”_
> 
> _Will nods, “I can see that, for both of them. Jack seems like this is all he has. Something is pushing him, but I don’t know what. He seems like everything is life or death here. Frederick is the same. The difference, though, I think, is that Jack is very goal-oriented. Frederick is more in it for what it gets him. He doesn’t seem to have a personal stake in this, Jack does.”_
> 
> _“You’re right,” Alana confirms, “That's part of why you're here. You can see better than any of us. Right now, the only 20/20 we have is hindsight. You can see things we don’t even think about looking for, and you don’t even have to search.”_
> 
> _Touching his glasses, Will smiles a little sheepishly, “Not sure how much better these eyes can do, but I’ll try. I've never imagined, much less seen, so many of the things you guys have here. What you're doing? I can't say I agree with it, but I think that's another reason I'm here.”_
> 
> _She nods, putting the last of the cans on the shelf, “See? 20/20. You're already doing better than we were. When they initially brought me onto the project, I didn’t agree with it at all. Then I started to read their research and prior tests and proposed results. If there’s something we can do to help those incarcerated at places like BSHCI, then I think we should try. If we can help them get back into the world, without having to fear that they’ll go back to what they did to get put in there to begin with, then I think we need to try. That’s why we need you here, too.”_
> 
> _Alana leans back against one of the shelves, hands moving as she talks, “We would never have a successful project if all we had were ‘yes’ men. We need people who push back. People who think about other outcomes, positive or negative, and make us think about how we can solve problems to get better outcomes. You're here because you have gifts none of us have, but you're also here because you bring perspective that we lack. Jack refused every other potential candidate. He wanted you. He needed you. I didn’t know why he fought so hard, but then I read your file and I couldn’t help but agree. You’re an excellent fit for this project, even, or maybe especially, because while we all want this to be a success, you hate the very idea of this project. May I ask why?”_
> 
> _Will shifts nervously, eyes darting around the room, “I can't agree with an idea that's based on drugging someone into forgetting themselves. Recreating someone into what you want them to be. I can’t agree with that. It’s taking someone away from who they are. You’re taking away someone’s identity. I have a big problem with an idea that revolves around that.”_
> 
> _“That is why you're here,” she repeats, “We don't see it that way. We see it as a way to offer a second chance to people who may not be given one on their own. We see it as a way to help not just the people who are incarcerated, but also the general public. If we can get rid of the part of someone that makes them do, to put it simply, bad things and instead make them focus on doing things that are beneficial to people, then I think we’re doing a lot of good.”_
> 
> _“You’re talking about erasing someone and creating a slave,” Will says angrily, and I can’t help but agree with him, “You want to get rid of someone’s personality, traits, and everything that makes them them and you want to replace it with, what, a cookie cutter do-gooder superhero type? How do you even know it works? How do you know you’ve truly gotten rid of the bad parts? You’d have to erase them as a whole to make sure you did, and then what’s the point of actually having that person? You’re basically creating dolls in someone else’s image. Who would even be so flawless that we could duplicate them into who knows how many people? There are so many things wrong with this project that I could keep going.”_
> 
> _“Good. That's how other people would see it. Having you here gives us the opportunity to try to convince you of the benefits of the project. You’ll see the flaws in our, for lack of a better word, programming. You can tells us about your reservations and we can work on solving those issues before we even announce it to anyone. If we can convince you, we have a better chance of other people believing in the idea,” Alana tells him, and I can see the belief shining in her eyes. This is something she truly feels strongly about._
> 
> _“Sounds like there's a lot of leeway with the work here,” he says, “No guidelines or rules blocking the way of scientific discovery. There can be a lot of benefits, but I'm also concerned about what else can come of that. We have rules for a reason, and when they're taken away, that's when we really see who someone is.”_
> 
> _“I know it seems radical, and it might be,” Alana allows, but then gestures towards the shelves, changing the subject to a less volatile topic, “but there's a lot of mundane work around here too. We’re not all fantastic ideas and crazy thoughts all the time. Sometimes we’re stacking canned goods. Things can be normal, or as close as we get, too.”_
> 
> _Will looks like he wants to go back to the previous topic when she pauses and points at the exhaust vent, but then she’s smiling at him again, the tense mood from the previous discussion seemingly forgotten, “That, for example. None of us can, for the life of us, figure out how to get it to stop squealing. The damp in here also spoils the food quicker than it would otherwise.”_
> 
> _He returns the smile, but it looks strained, “It'll be an experience, if nothing else.”_
> 
> _“Welcome to the Ripper Project, Will,” she tells him, then turns to unpack more boxes. He watches her for a few seconds before turning to leave. The pendulum swings before I’m prepared for it this time._

The disorientation he feels from not being ready for the vision’s end makes him stumble a little into one of the metal shelves, causing it to collapse, the bolts not strong enough to hold his weight against them. He saw the rust before, but now he realizes that things are in far worse condition than he originally thought. Cans roll across the floor before coming to a stop. He looks at the mess of metal and cans on the floor, thinking about what he should do next. He needs to figure out what he can do, or better yet, where he can _go_. It would help if he had a map.


	5. Lines. That's All It Takes To Create A Map. Just Lines

Well, lines and words, connecting them together. Though, thinking on it, maybe it’s a bit more complex than that. Not his, though. The rough map he draws, using a pencil found on the counter and a piece of paper from the notepad in Jack’s room, is probably as basic as basic can get. A three year old could probably draw better maps than he can. Unfortunately, this will have to work _._ All he needs is something he can use to help him orient himself as he makes his way through the rest of the facility. He tries to draw from memory, closing his eyes to picture things. He’s sitting in the dining room, looking at the rudimentary beginnings of his map. He starts with the residences, which is easy enough. The rooms are set up at the north, south, east, and west, each with bathrooms beside each other, at the northeast and southwest corners. The dining area is set up to the northwest corner of the room, with the antechamber leading out to the southeast. The storage room is off to the southwest of the dining room. The antechamber continues to the southeast, leading into the entry area, where he had seen the vision of the team welcoming Will Graham. He creates a separate map with the rest of the rooms he’s explored so far, just marking off the residence area, because he doesn’t need it that specific on this map, and it’ll take a lot of room that he can use for the new rooms he's expecting to find. The communications room is to the east of the hall immediately north of the entry area. North of that is the atrium, then another hall and an end that has several doors. The record room is off to the west there. That's what he's seen so far.

Depending on how big the facility is, and seeing as how he's only come across three of the areas monitored from the communications room, he may need more paper to map things out, so he tucks the notepad into his back pocket, the pencil in his breast pocket. He can’t remember where the other doors are, or, he _can_ remember where _some_ are, but not all of them. He remembers there are another two doors off the entry room, and another off the atrium. He’s pretty sure there’s another at the north end of the hall, but he wants to check to make sure.

As he walks back through the facility, through the atrium, he glances at the east door. He hadn't thought to open it before, after turning the power back on. He wasn't completely sure why, other than that he had been on a mission with the key card, and then with the metal key. There’s a small panel beside the bulkhead that he assumes is how to open it. He pauses, considering whether to go now, or after checking the north end of the hall. If he checks the north end of the hall first, he might get distracted again if there’s a door he can go through. Easier to just do it now, he decides, while I'm here. Mapping new areas is what he’s working on right now anyway, and this is a new area. He already knows about the north end, but he doesn’t know _anything_ about what’s to the east.

He walks over to the heavy metal door and touches the panel beside it. The door slides easily to the side, letting him through. Unsurprisingly, this area looks the same as the other hall, leading him east toward another termination point. There are two doors here. One is another key card access door, the other another metal bulkhead. This bulkhead, though, has a flashing red beacon above it and several large “warning” labels all over it. It’s strange, the innate response to go _toward_ the things that warn people away. He is no different than anyone else in this, choosing to ignore the part of him screaming at him to stay away in favor of sating his curiosity and moving closer. He gets close enough to read some of the smaller writing on the labels, but also wants to see if there is anything different about this door, aside from the obvious: the glaring red light and warning signs. There isn’t a panel next to this door, this one has a hand scanner on it instead. The added security isn’t out of place with the warnings and alarm. He places his hand over the scanner, but nothing happens. There’s a panel, near the bottom corner of the door that looks a little off, too. Like it’s a cover for something. Leaning down to get a better look, he’s overcome by the familiar feeling of an oncoming vision, and manages to steady himself right before the pendulum swings.

> _I can hear people talking. I've been thrown into the middle of a conversation. I turn around and see Alana, Frederick, and Will in the middle of the hall, which is now absent of the flashing red light._
> 
> _Frederick was talking, annoyance on his face, “-can understand the desire for more information, but I'm not sure I agree that you need to spend that much time with the specimen.”_
> 
> _“Why not?” Will asks, confusion all over his face, a hint of surprise was there too, “We’re studying him, learning about him. Why wouldn't we talk to him? We’re trying to gauge the effectiveness of these drugs you guys came up with. How can we figure out the effects without talking to him?”_
> 
> _“It, Will,” Frederick told him, condescendingly, smirking, “It is a specimen in an ongoing research trial. We do need to see the effectiveness of the formula, but we can do that without you going several times a day.”_
> 
> _“I can't understand how you can dehumanize him like that either,” Will protests, glaring._
> 
> _Alana jumps in, “He's done some horrible things, Will. That's why he's here. Frederick brought him here specifically for this trial. Sometimes it's easier to dehumanize than to feel guilty for thinking about doing this to someone. How else are we going to test the formulas if not on someone who could actually benefit from it?”_
> 
> _Will scoffs, “You'd rather take away his humanity? You think that is the solution? You think that it's okay to use him as a lab rat because of the things he's done?”_
> 
> _“Why are you here, if not to work with us on this, Graham?” Frederick asks coldly, his eyes shifting to look away._
> 
> _“I'm here,” Will begins, biting his lip to stop himself from saying something he may regret. I see his chest rise as he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, he looks much calmer and continues, “I’m here because I don't agree with this project. I'm here to provide insight from the specimen and to work with him to determine how your drugs are working. I’m here to make sure you think about all aspects, not just the potential for greatness, but the potential for negative effects too. I know what your purpose here is.”_
> 
> _“We're all here for a purpose,” Alana speaks again before either man can, “Each of us has a valid, important purpose here. I understand what you're saying, Will, but this is what we're here for. This is the project we've been working on for months, years even. We've finally moved on to human trials, and it's important that we work together to make sure we're doing this the right way. If we can stop attacking each other, we'd be better off.”_
> 
> _“There has to be a purpose to this, it's too dangerous to do something without one,” Will tells them, “My purpose is to work with the test subject and see if the purpose is accomplished or can be accomplished. To do that, I need to work closely with him throughout the entire trial. I need to create a baseline on his personality now so I’ll be able to tell the difference after we administer the formula. To do that, I need to meet with him at different times over time. I can’t base his personality on how he acts at a set time when he knows I’ll be there. He would have time to prepare a lie. It’s better to go without planning it, and often so I see him in different ways.”_
> 
> _“You can't get too close,” Alana warns him, “You have to make sure you don't get too close to this, Will. You’re spending a lot of time with him, you’re bound to start getting emotions from him. You could get too close to this. You have to protect yourself, Will. You could lose yourself if you get too close.”_
> 
> _“It'd be easy enough to do, with your condition,” Frederick says almost too quietly, but Will still hears him and glares. The older man shrugs, “You have an empathy disorder, Graham, and while that's one of our reasons for wanting you here, it also makes you a liability if you get too close to this. Too close to the test subject.”_
> 
> _“I've already told Jack that I don't want you to get too close to this, Will,” Alana cautions, “I don't know if he'll listen, but I've talked to him about the risks.”_
> 
> _“The risks?” Will looks at her in disbelief, “What risks?”_
> 
> _“The risks to you,” she’s almost pleading with him to understand, “Will, you have a high level empathy disorder, and I'm concerned that if you get too close to the spec-”_
> 
> _“If you're going to insist on referring to him as a thing, at least call him a ‘test subject’,” Will interrupts, grinding his teeth in anger. The way they keep referring to the subject, to Hannibal, bothers him far more than it probably should. And he’s starting to realize that it may actually become a problem if he’s feeling this strongly already._
> 
> _Alana hesitates before continuing, “These are things that make me concerned, Will. If you get too close to the…test subject, I'm worried that you'll become a liability to the project, or even that he'll get into your head. If he gets too far into your head, or you get too far into his, I'm afraid you won't be able to get back out again. You have to distance yourself from this, as much as you can. That’s what we’re doing.”_
> 
> _“You're concerned because I want him to be treated like a person,” Will states quietly as he runs a hand over his face, “Never mind, we’re just talking in circles.”_
> 
> _“It's ridiculous that you're even still talking about it,” Frederick throws in, smirking at the other man, and I can tell that he thinks he's superior to both of his colleagues. There’s that look again, in his eyes, as if he knows more than they do._
> 
> _“Listen, you greasy fu-”_
> 
> _“Please, Will,” Alana stops him before he can finish, her eyes pleading with him to just drop it. Frederick is glaring at him, and he just mirrors the older man’s look. I can see how disconcerted Alana is, but the scene fades away, the pendulum swings, and it goes dark._

When he comes to, he finds himself kneeling on the floor, the panel only inches away. He shakes off the residual effects of the vision, trying to clear his head, before reaching out. He tries to move the panel, but it only wiggles a little, not coming off. He takes a closer look. There are screws keeping the panel in place, even if they are a little loose. He can’t help but grin, thinking about how his paranoia about being attacked actually ended up helping him. He pulls the screwdriver out of his back pocket and quickly spins the screws until there are no more holding the panel in place. He pulls the panel away, slowly in case it’s attached to anything. The panel doesn’t resist his pull, revealing a space behind it that holds a lever with a label above it. “Manual Override”. This lever should be able to open the door. He tries pulling the lever, but it doesn’t move. Why isn't it working? He looks up, seeing the red light from the warning alarm. Maybe the alarms are stopping it from working. Maybe the door has some kind of emergency override that stops it from opening when the alarms are active. He shakes himself, knowing that he’s right about the alarms. Why can’t he remember more than just flashes here and there? Maybe he _is_ the test subject, Hannibal Lecter, and maybe this is a side effect of the drugs they were experimenting with. Either way, he needs to figure out how to get this door open because there will be answers on the other side, even if it’s just more rooms to explore. There are still the labs and galleries to look for, and those should help a lot. He can’t even imagine what he’s going to find in the gallery and labs, how much he could learn about himself and about what happened here.

He starts pacing, considering his options. He can see if the override lever will work when the power is off. The other doors like this one are controlled by the main power, so maybe that will shut down the alarms and let the lever work. Though the alarms could be supported by the emergency power supply. He can test it and see, it won’t hurt to try. He can go to the communications room and shut off the main power supply, then come back here and flip the switch. He can check out the next area, or areas, after that, see if he needs the power and come back.

Plan made, he walks back down the hall to the atrium and goes south to the communications room. He glances quickly at the security monitors to see if there’s anything new. The Gallery cameras are still static, and there’s nothing new on the other cameras, so nothing surprising. As he turns away, movement catches his eye and he turns back. There was movement on the monitor showing the Lab Entrance. The swinging doors are moving. He leans closer to see if he can see anything different. The screen wavers, fading a bit, and suddenly there’s a…man standing in the room. All he can see is inky black, oily looking skin at first. Then he notices the antlers. Finally, he’s caught by the maroon eyes that seem to lock onto his own through the camera. He can’t bring himself to turn away. There’s something in those eyes that catches him. This can’t be real. He can’t believe that this is real. The screen wavers again and the man is gone, the screen no longer faded as it had been while it, he, had been on the screen. He stares, waiting for something else to happen, but the screen stays solid and bright. After a few minutes, he turns away, no longer sure that what he saw was real. He shivers, trying to stop himself from looking back at the monitor, and instead turning his attention back to the mission. He walks to the switch box, this time taking a moment to read the labels over each switch. They were labeled for each room, but not the hallways. Of course, he thinks, why would it be easy? Naturally, there can’t be a switch for the east hallway itself. Readying himself for the plunge back to darkness, he closes his eyes and flips the red switch back to the off position. The dull hum stops, and he hears a slight click that he assumes is the monitors shutting off. His skin prickles as he opens his eyes. Everything is dark again.

He leaves the communications room and goes back to the atrium. The light coming in through the skylight above is not near as bright as before. If he had to guess, he would say it was probably late afternoon, the sun still setting but almost down. He looks down the east hall. Gone were the flashing red light and yellow of the fluorescent overhead lights. The hallway was almost pitch black, the only light illuminating it coming from the atrium. Why couldn’t he find a flashlight tucked away somewhere? He walks, hesitantly, down the east hall. Without the steady, dim hum of the electricity, he can’t tune out the echoes of his feet against the tiles, the socks helping minimally with the sound. When he reaches the end of the hall, the dark is almost oppressive, and he can barely see the outline of the bulkhead. Awkwardly kneeling, he crawls close to feel around for the place where the override switch was hidden. He finally finds the lever after fumbling around for a few minutes, pulling it after crossing his fingers.

The bulkhead opens, the door sliding up into the ceiling.


	6. The Darkness Is So Thick, It Almost Suffocates Him

He finds himself squinting to try to see into the darkness in front of him. There’s no way he can go forward without the main lights back on. Unfortunately, that will turn the alarm back on. Will the alarm trigger an override to the manual override switch? How does that even work? He tries to think of a way to keep the door open in case that happens. He tries to think of something that he could use to prop it open and remembers the broken shelf in the storage room. There were a couple of long, at least six feet long, metal poles that were holding up the shelf. He can go get one or two of those and put them in the doorframe, just in case, or he can turn the power back on and check the door first.

The communications room is on the way to the residence area, and he’s going to need the power on to see where he’s going anyway, so he’ll try the power first and check the door, then go get the poles if necessary. If it comes to that, he hopes they’re not rusted through. He stands and clumsily walks back to the communications room, feeling his way along the wall a bit where it’s darkest. If he does this enough, he won’t even need the lights soon. He hears something behind him and spins around, feeling his heart beating fast as his eyes dart around, trying to find _anything_. The silence is louder than any noise. He closes his eyes to try to pay attention to his hearing, but as soon as he closes his eyes all he can see is the image of the strange inky antler man from the monitor and he opens his eyes almost immediately. He turns back around and continues down the hall, trying his best not to flinch at the silence. It feels almost like someone, or something, is watching. There are no more noises on the rest of the walk back to the communications room, which he’s thankful for as he flips the red switch again. The humming begins again and he hears the monitors starting up. The electronic voice from earlier again announces, “ _ **Main power supply returned. Auxiliary power supply on standby. All station functions returning to normal**_.”

There’s a moment of quiet before the voice says, “ _ **Warning: Safety breach at Gallery Junction entrance. Security systems now closing and sealing door**_.” He hears the slamming of a door that he’s sure is the east hallway bulkhead and the voice speaks again, “ _ **Safety breach sealed**_.”

Well that answers that question. He leaves the room, looking all around as he makes his way back to the residences. He can’t shake the feeling of being watched. He walks straight through to the storage room and looks at the mess on the floor. Everything was as he left it. He wasn’t expecting it to be different, but he also didn’t know if what he saw on the monitor had been real and he wanted to be prepared if it was. He squats down and pushes some of the mess aside, picking up two of the metal poles. They were heavier than they looked, which meant they were probably solid rather than hollow, so that was working for him, but that also meant he could only carry one. He hopes that’s all he’ll need for the door. They don’t seem too terribly rusted either, but he takes the one with the least discoloration. He leaves, dragging the pole behind him. He twitches as the pole makes a terrible screeching noise against the tile floor. It was worse than nails on a chalkboard. It was like fork tines against a porcelain plate, but louder. He shivers. He tries picking the pole up, but he can’t carry it for long that way and has to continue dragging it.

It feels like it takes so much longer to get back to the communications room than it actually does. The noise of the pole making it seem like an eternity. He shuts the main power off again and goes back through the atrium and down the hall. He feels on edge the whole time, the screeching of the pole on the tiles not helping the situation at all. It’s, quite frankly, freaking him out. He’s done pretty well with this whole thing, or at least he thinks he has, but this is getting to him. The darkness, so still and ominous around him. The screeches almost like tiny little screams following behind him. The flash of a dark creature in his mind. He still feels, maybe more so now, as if something is watching him, but knows it’s just in his mind. He reaches the end of the hall and kneels to open the door again and pulls the lever. The door practically springs up into the ceiling again. He feels around in the doorframe, setting the metal pole against the side, resting it in the groove that the door would slide down. It stays.

He lets out a sigh and walks, almost runs, back to the communications room and goes right for the switch. The power comes back up. He lets out a sigh of relief as the electronic voice speaks to him.

“ ** _Main power supply returned. Auxiliary power supply on standby. All station functions returning to_ normal**.”

There’s a pause again, the voice announcing, “ _ **Warning: Safety breach at Gallery Junction entrance. Security systems now closing and sealing door**_.” There’s an odd thud, following by a shrill screech from down the east hall. “ _ **Warning: Safety breach at Gallery Junction entrance. Security systems unable to close door. Warning: Safety breach at Gallery Junction entrance. Security systems unable to close door**_.”

Relieved that he doesn’t have to drag any more metal poles, that this one had done its job and with minimal hassle, he heads back to the east end of the hallway. He can see the red light flashing, but sees that the door has been effectively held by the pole. He can see a relatively small room through the doorway, even more doors can be seen as he walks closer. He steps through the doorway into what is apparently the Gallery Junction, according to the electronic voice. He pulls the notepad out of his back pocket, and the pencil from his breast pocket, and marks the map with the new areas before returning them.

Now, he looks around the room. To the east and south are sliding glass doors, each with a card slot for access, and to the north is a hallway. The sliding glass doors to the east show a large, dark room. He can’t see anything except that it’s big. The doors to the south have another of the flashing red warning lights. There's also a sort of alcove to the east, next to the doors, but he doesn't look too closely at the alcove. Instead, he walks right up to the doors, more interested in seeing what’s behind them, getting close to try to see through the doors, but is overcome by the swinging of the pendulum.

> _I’m facing the south doors, but now, Jack is beside me. I turn around and see Frederick standing in the middle of the junction. I move to stand close to the north wall so I can see what they’re doing, and what they’re looking at. Jack is just staring through the south doors, brows furrowed in concentration. Frederick is watching him, a look of almost regret on his face before he speaks, “Jack, you can’t keep doing this. Unfortunately, we have to accept that the project isn’t working. The Wendigo formula doesn’t do what we need it to do. None of the test subjects can withstand the effects. It’s worthless!”_
> 
> _Jack sighs, as if he’s heard this before and he’s now just annoyed with the repetition, “We’re still testing, Frederick, we can’t be sure it’s a failure until testing is complete. There’s so much the formula could do. Just think of the work that could be done if the FBI could unlock that kind of power, to be able to utilize the minds of men who can provide us with more knowledge from firsthand experience, and yet be wholly accountable to us? Think of all the good we could do. For them. For us. For everyone.”_
> 
> _“But how long would it take to get the full release of the formula?” Frederick argues, “How long would it take for the full potential to be recognized? They’ll go mad first. And what about the enhanced strength? Do we really want that with the subjects we’ll be using this on? If their minds aren’t already twisted, then they would be by the side effects, and that’s not even taking into consideration the overload on the mind-”_
> 
> _“So you say,” Jack interrupts coldly, “We don’t know for sure that the side effects would be that extreme, or that there would be an overload on the mind. Without a human trial, we can’t know that. I’ve already spoken with the Bureau and they agree that a human trial is necessary to determine the full range of effects, positive and negative.”_
> 
> _Frederick scoffs, “As if a volunteer would actually be allowed in this facility for a trial. Please, Jack, who do you think you’re talking to? I know things here aren’t popular with all of the higher ups and that we need to keep things in the dark. How do you imagine we’ll have a human trial without humans to try? All we have is the possibility, only the slim possibility, of one of my prisoners. One. We can’t have a trial with just one subject, Jack. They’d want to see the effects on the first subject and then determine if it’s stable enough to continue with more than that.”_
> 
> _Jack turns around, glaring at the other man as they both start walking up the hallway to the north, “They have to allow it, at some point. And soon. They’ll have to send someone if they expect anything to come of it. I’m getting demands for a human trial, so they have to accommodate that. Someone wants this to work, so they’ll see to it that we get our subjects, but maybe all we need is just one person, a certain type of person. Maybe we need someone a little special for this. I already have someone, possibly two people, in mind. I’m sure my request will go through just fine with those two.”_
> 
> _I can hear Jack’s voice, demands for a human trial, echoes in my mind as the pendulum swings._

He comes back to himself, still hearing Jack’s voice in his mind. He’s distracted by the vision and almost forgets to try the key card, to see if it opens the doors. He’s both disappointed and glad that it doesn't work on either. That means he can follow Jack and Frederick to the north.  Turning to the hallway, he can almost see the faded image of the two men walking away from him. He walks north, beginning to recognize the area ahead of him. This is the Lab Entrance. This is where the man, creature, had been. He jumps when the distant electronic voice says, “ _ **Warning: Main power supply low**_.”

Great, he thinks, if the power goes out, I’ll be stuck here with a creepy shadow creature for who knows how long. Maybe until I die, he thinks, then quickly shakes himself out of it. He looks around, not really believing there would be anything there but feeling the need to check anyway, before walking over to the swinging doors to the north to peer through the windows. There’s a collection of medical equipment, some needles, vials, and other things he can’t see, as well as some thick books and notebooks on a table. There’s a small door to the east that opens easily, revealing a walk-in supply closet lined with shelves. He goes into the closet and looks around. There are empty bottles, boxes, and tubes on some shelves and bottles full of liquids and powders on others. There’s a small bottle, probably the size of Alana’s perfume bottle, filled with a grey liquid with a label on the side reading “FORMULA: WNDG1327”. Could this be the Wendigo formula Frederick and Jack had been talking about? He picks up the bottle and brings it close to his face, trying to get a closer look, but it just looks like dirty water. Is it really that special? There are more bottles on the same shelf, but each of these were labeled “FORMULA: RPPR” with a number following, like the Wendigo formula had been labeled. He looks through the bottles, trying to see if they were numbered the same. He finds that they are, but the closest one to the 1327 is “FORMULA: RPPR1298”. Each of the labels on _this_ formula have a big red “X” over them. He assumes they didn’t work as desired. He puts the bottle of Wendigo formula in the front pocket of his jeans, after wrapping it in a couple paper towels. There’s a door to the north, he pushes it open, looking inside first before actually stepping in.

This room almost reminds him of the morgue, of an autopsy room. The walls are the same bright white as the rest of the facility, the same white tile floor, except in the center of the floor, there’s a drain. Directly above the drain is a stainless steel table, large enough for a body. To one side of the room, there’s a deep sink, with a faucet, but also has0 hoses attached. One hose is coiled up and he can’t tell how long it is, but it looks like it could almost wrap around the room. The other hose is shorter, only a couple feet long. Next to the sink is a counter, the same stainless steel as the sink and table. Easier to rinse, he guesses. There are cabinets under the counter, each filled with cleaning supplies, gloves, and one has knives, a couple of bone saws, and some empty syringes. There’s another door to the west.

It’s creepy, how silent it is here. Well, the room in general is creepy, but the silence makes it ten times worse. That’s the thought at the front of his mind. Were they doing autopsies, or were they using this as a medical office for regular visits? Where was the doctor? _Who_ was the doctor? There were only supposed to be four personnel here, and he was discounting Jack and Will straight away. They weren’t doctors. Frederick and Alana were psychiatrists, not medical doctors. Had they received some sort of informal training to practice basic medicine since there wasn’t an actual doctor on site?

He walks back to the table and notices a syringe on the little tray beside it. It was filled with a clear liquid. He grabs it and, making sure it’s capped, tucks it into his breast pocket, next to the pencil. He tries the west door, finding it unlocked, and goes into the next room. This room has to be a kind of lab, though it seems to be sectioned off. He looks down the hall to the west. There are two doorways, without doors, sectioning the lab into three areas. This is the room he saw through the double doors. He sees the equipment and vials he noticed through the portholes on the stainless steel table in the center of _this_ part of the room. This table is a little longer, thinner, than the one from the autopsy room, as he’s now decided to call it. The one in the previous room looked like it had been made to hold a body, this one was more for actually using as a table, to hold _things_ not _people_ , but just as easy to clean. There’s a sign on the wall. Lab Hall III. He pulls out his map and marks down the new rooms before looking around.

The table has a variety of tools on it, but the tools aren’t what catches his attention. What catches his attention are the two cages on the table. They’re empty now, but they must have contained animals before, probably for testing. One has red ribbon tied around the outside, the other has green ribbon. There are also notebooks and papers scattered across the table. There’s a cabinet against the north wall. He walks over to the cages, reaching for some of the papers near them to find out if they have information about what had been in the cages, but he feels the oncoming vision right before the pendulum swings.

> _The first change I notice is the noise. The room is no longer in absolute silence as it had been before. Now, I hear little shuffles and chirps, scritches, papers shuffling. I open my eyes and see the cages now hold animals. Both cages hold several mice. Jack sits at the table, watching the mice in one cage, then watches the other cage, comparing. He has a laptop sitting farther down the table and is instead making notes in a composition notebook._
> 
> _“Further notes on Wendigo formula…” He says quietly as he writes, running a hand through his short salt and pepper hair, mouthing other things not said aloud. He shifts closer to the cages and stares at some of the mice, “Specimens receive brief increase in physical strength after initial injection of Wendigo formula. Period lasts only several minutes, but is worth noting. Will this differ in human test subjects? Negative effects of note: After a short period of time, the formula causes uneven dilation in the eyes, creating a distortion in vision.”_
> 
> _One of the mice in the cage farthest from Jack starts to attack another in its cage. Jack does nothing, just watching what happens. I’m horrified as I watch one mouse rip another to shreds before returning to its docile state. Jack bends to his notebook again, writing._
> 
> _“Properties enhanced with the Wendigo formula and periods of…” He stops, looking into the cage again, trying to find words that can best express what happened, “instability both increase over time. Extreme emotional reactions can also trigger instability, possible blackouts or seizures.”_
> 
> _He closes the notebook, tossing his pen onto the table before looking at the mouse that had just attacked the other, “Unfortunately, I can’t have that as part of the official record. What can we do about that?”_
> 
> _Jack reaches into the cage, picking up the mouse. It only glances up at Jack before returning to cleaning itself. Once Jack has it in his hand, he holds it just so and squeezes. I can’t help but jump as I hear its bones break. The mice in the other cage are running around, eyes dilated in such a way that they appeared insane. One of the mice throws itself against the side of the cage while the other stares in hunger. Jack returns the mouse to its cage and the vision fades. The pendulum swings as Jack stands and walks to the cabinet._

He comes back and immediately goes to the cabinet. Inside, he finds biohazard bags, formaldehyde, and other preservatives and means of disposal for hazardous materials. There is a little lockbox on the bottom shelf, but he ignores it for now, needing to keep his focus on what he’s doing now. He can always come back if he needs to. He doesn’t even have a key, and carrying the box around won’t do any good. He looks over the cabinet again, realizing that Jack must have come here to dispose of the dead mouse. He walks east, to the next section of the lab, which is the middle of the lab area conveniently labeled Lab II for his mapping purposes. One wall has a bank of computers and a printer, the other wall has a counter set up with more test tubes, some empty, a couple broken, but most full. There were a few jars with powders, but other than that, there wasn’t much in this section. He walks up to the tubes, and only when he picks one up does he notice the label marking it as “FORMULA: RPPR1327”. He feels himself falling into another vision just as the pendulum swings.

> _I’m no longer holding the test tube when I open my eyes. Will and Frederick are in front of me, both are looking at the different tubes and Frederick waves a hand toward them, “This is it. This is what we’ve been working on for months. These are the Wendigo and Ripper formulas.”_
> 
> _“Why are there two?” Will asks, “I thought this was the Ripper project, why isn’t there just a Ripper formula? What’s the Wendigo formula? What do they both do?”_
> 
> _Frederick sighs, as if he’s put out by such a ridiculous question, “There are two formulas for the same project. There are two phases of the project, each to complement the other. The Ripper formula is for the first phase, and serves as a base for the modification of the specimen’s behavior. The Ripper formula serves as a way to wipe the slate clean, so to speak. It’s our way of resetting the recipient.”_
> 
> _I can see the faint shiver that runs up Will’s spine at Frederick’s words, but he just swallows audibly, listening as the other man continues in his explanation, “The Wendigo formula is for phase two. Phase two serves as the rewriting phase. We have to reprogram the specimen with new beliefs. The Wendigo formula increases subject susceptibility to suggestion and coercion, letting us manipulate memories that we choose to leave, as well as making them more open to orders and instruction, letting us shape them as we will. We can completely change a person. Do you have any idea of what that’s like, Graham?”_
> 
> _Will opens his mouth to say something about that, but Frederick holds up a tube labeled “FORMULA: RPPR1327”, then grabs another tube, but this one was labeled “FORMULA: WNDG1327”, continuing again, but this time his eyes are completely focused on Will, that same hungry look from before in his eyes now, “These two were created for each other. They pair together. If you use one, you must use the other. Wendigo won’t work without Ripper. Each has been developed specifically for the other. The Wendigo formula contains a small portion of the Ripper formula, basically serving to…activate it, for lack of a better term. The Wendigo formula also serves as a lock on the door that is the Ripper formula. It reinforces the wipe from the original injection.”_
> 
> _“And you want to give this to criminals? It sounds like cruel and unusual punishment,” Will questions, his voice reflecting his disbelief, “You’re not helping people with this, you’re erasing them. You’re getting rid of the problem child and building your own, perfect one. Perfect in your eyes, though, is different than what others might think. Have you even considered what would happen if someone were to ‘program’ someone with the complete opposite idea than we have? There are so many negative implications here that I don’t understand how you’ve been given the go ahead. Have any of you thought about what would happen to the specimens you’re working with? No. That’s because you don’t care. You don’t want to rehabilitate anyone, you want vessels for your own army.”_
> 
> _“You don’t understand,” Frederick tells him, a bit of a feverish anger in his eyes, “I don’t know why I even considered you would understand what we’re trying to do here. Of course you wouldn’t. You’re too close to this, and you don’t even see it. You don't understand what we hope to accomplish, what we have accomplished, with this.”_
> 
> _“What do you mean? That makes no sense,” Will rubs his eyes, under his glasses, “If anyone is too close to this, it’s you. You and Jack. You've both been with this from the beginning. You’re the ones who are too close to this. I’ve been against it since I first heard about it. You think you can just take away who people are? You think you can just erase who someone is and replace them with someone else? Even if you can, how could you think you have the right to do it? You’re doing something completely against any rules of nature or man. You think anything about this project is a good idea?”_
> 
> _Looking smug, Frederick grins, “That’s exactly what we’re doing. We are doing good here, Graham. We’re taking people out of the system and-”_
> 
> _“You’re recycling them!” Will yells, “You’re not helping them. You’re recycling them.”_
> 
> _“What would happen to them if we didn't?” Frederick’s smug grin is still in place, but there’s something else in his eyes. It’s like he knows far more than he’s saying, or willing to say. He shrugs and continues, “They'd stay in the system, using resources we can put to use elsewhere. If we have the chance of lessening the strain on our justice system, why wouldn't we? They can do something productive in society again with this project. We’re no longer just housing incurable patients for their lifetime. We’re preparing individuals for their second chance.”_
> 
> _“Is it really a second chance if you’ve taken their identity away from them?” Will demands, running his hands through his hair, “I don’t think it really counts as a second chance this way, Frederick. It’s exactly as I said before. Recycling. You’re recycling people who are no longer of use to you. You don't want to help them, you want to make a name for yourself. You want everyone to know that you were one of the ones to push this through. You want the glory of it. That’s all you want.”_
> 
> _“I’m not saying I don’t,” the other man smirks, “but there is something to be said for fixing a broken teacup.”_
> 
> _Will opens his mouth to say something, but stops at what Chilton just said. He looks thoughtful, but confused, like maybe he had lost something but didn't remember what it was, but then he speaks, “Maybe they are shattered teacups, but maybe you’re putting the teacups back together wrong.”_
> 
> _Frederick’s expression is surprised, then seemingly blank, “It doesn’t matter. This is the project, Graham. You’re in or you’re out. You’re here now, so obviously you’re in. You can't stop this. All you can do is help.”_
> 
> _“You expect me to just stand by as you ruin lives?” Will laughs humorlessly, “Wait, is it even ruining lives if they don’t know? You’re trying to play God, Chilton. That never ends well.”_
> 
> _More surprise flits across Frederick’s face, “We just want to do the best we can here, Graham. Why would you come if you don't want that?”_
> 
> _Will adjusts his stance, “I already told you, all of you. I’m here because I don't agree with it. I didn’t even really know where I was being shipped off to before they loaded me on a plane. I got information on the project then, and only barely enough to know there was a project, and I decided that Crawford needs someone playing devil’s advocate before it goes any further. Someone has to advocate for the men and women you want to recycle.”_
> 
> _“I’m afraid we’re here for different things, then, Will,” Frederick tells him, straightening his suit, “You want this to stop, obviously. I want to see it through to its fruition. I want to watch as the first test subject goes through the process and comes out the other side ready for anything. I want to watch as that subject works with us to bring more and more criminals back into society. I want to stand here and look that subject in the eye as he works toward bettering the future, not ruining it.”_
> 
> _“But it won’t be just any criminal or test subject, will it, Frederick?” Will is getting exasperated, “It’s going to be someone who was sent to your hospital because they’ve been judged to be insane. Criminally insane, Frederick. That is who will be coming out the other side. Someone who can do much worse than the person who went in to begin with if these drugs don’t hold up as they’re meant to.”_
> 
> _“Graham, you’re here to offer insights and advice based on your special way of thinking. You’re here to work for us,” Frederick sneers, “Do that, but otherwise, let us do our jobs and to make sure these drugs work then. That way we won't have any issues like the ones you're seeing with that oh so vivid imagination of yours.”_
> 
> _Will glares, “My ‘vivid imagination’ is why your team wanted me here. I didn't volunteer for this. I was put on a plane and sent here with no prior knowledge. Your team had a stack of files to go through, I’m guessing,, and apparently decided I was the best choice for this. More fool you if you thought I'd just go along with whatever you tell me to. I'm here to observe, Frederick, that's true, but I'm also here to stop you when something goes wrong. I’m not some puppet whose strings you can pull anytime you want. I’ll speak my mind no matter what. My main priority is to make sure you see every potential for negative consequences. To stop something from going wrong if you’re ignoring basic human nature. To stop you from going any deeper into the shit when you start wading in. You've got your first specimen and I'm here to make sure it doesn't go to hell.”_
> 
> _“What would you do if it did?” Frederick asks, curiosity shining in his eyes._
> 
> _“Shut this place down,” Will tells him before turning and walking away, “and watch it burn.”_
> 
> _I can tell Frederick wants to say something more, but he shakes his head and turns back to the test tubes, holding one up, speaking to it, “We’ll see what happens when Will Graham is proven wrong.”_
> 
> _Everything fades, the pendulum’s swing taking me back._

He comes back to himself at the sound of a shatter. He looks down to see the test tube now in shards on the floor, a small puddle where it landed. This had been the sister drug to the one he found in the closet earlier. 1327. That was also the number for the “specimen”. Hannibal Lecter. Does that mean it was created and then administered to him? Had he been given the drug already? If so, had he been given the Wendigo formula yet? What happened with the trial? To Hannibal Lector? He continues moving east through the lab, just taking in all of the information he’s received. He’s in the final section of the lab now, Lab I. There's a metal bulkhead, with a lever beside it, to the southeast, as well as another stainless steel table in the center of the room, but this one has a tray with a dissected frog, well, stitched up frog, sitting on it, the scent of formaldehyde almost overwhelming. There were more of the same tools he had seen in the previous sections of the lab and another notebook, but nothing really new here. No visions crowd his mind. Nothing here stands out. Except…when he starts toward the bulkhead, he notices something under the tray with the frog. He walks over, moving the tray aside, picking up the small, plastic green card. This card is different than the other one, the one from Frederick’s room. This one has a photo of Jack Crawford on it. The only rooms he couldn't access so far had been back at the Gallery Junction. Right now, though, he could see where this bulkhead takes him. He walks over to the metal door, but hesitates before pulling the lever. He’s had visions in the other two labs, it seems a little anticlimactic to not have one here. He pulls the lever beside the door and it slides up. He waits another few seconds, checking in with how he feels, not finding any of the normal signs that come before a vision. Maybe he’ll finally be able to piece things together when he sees the rest of the Gallery area. With that thought in mind, he walks out to see what area he’s in now.


	7. Going Back To The Beginning Is Hard

He just made a circle around the facility and now he’s back where he started. At least he’s not on the floor this time. And he’s much warmer. He considers the options he has now. He can go back to the Gallery, check out the rest of that area, or he can also go back to the residence area and see what he missed before. Right now, the residence area is more tempting. He can go to one of the bathrooms, look in one of the mirrors. At least then he’d have another thing checked off on his list. Figuring out who I am, check. Whether he’s the specimen or the skeptic who apparently got too close to the specimen. Either way, he would finally know. There’s also another door down in that area that he hasn’t checked out yet, so he can do that too. He thinks finding out who he is is more critical to him right now. He’s seen so many bits and pieces, though none feature the specimen, none have shown him Hannibal Lecter. If he goes and recognizes himself, then he’s Will Graham. If he doesn’t recognize who he is, then obviously he has to be Hannibal Lecter. He’s not sure who he’d rather be.

As he walks back to the residence area, he chastises himself for not making it a priority to find out earlier. He realizes that this is probably the least efficient way to go about anything. He could have looked when he was there before, but he didn't. He thinks about it and realizes that he wasn't ready. He’s not sure if he’s ready now, but he has a better idea of who’s who and is more ready to find out more about himself. Part of the push now is the visions. He’s been getting them more often, and at least one in each area. There’s a lot of information coming from them, and he wants to know where he stands. Or maybe where he stood, before…now. Before something happened to make him forget everything.

He freezes. His thoughts halted. He forgot everything. He _forgot_ everything. He forgot _everything_. Had he somehow been injected with the Ripper formula? Maybe that was the accident. Or maybe he was Lector. That would be the simple explanation. He doesn’t remember anything because he _is_ the test subject. He’s been given the Ripper formula. Another possibility, however slight, is that he had somehow been injected with the formula, maybe as he was trying to inject Lector? His head began to ache. He felt a little dizzy at the direction of his thoughts. There was something going on here, but he still didn’t know what it was. This was further proof that he needed to find out who he is. He needs to find out as soon as possible or he’s going to lose his mind in all the speculation and pressure in his head. He has to stop himself from considering it any more, he’s sure that’s why his head is aching so much. He’s going to find out who he is. Now.

He’s nervous at the thought of it now. It’s almost like he’s stuck in a guillotine, waiting for the blade to fall. Waiting to find out if he’s the executed or executioner. When he gets to the residences, he goes into Frederick’s room first, practically shoving things aside as he makes his way to the bathroom. The bathroom, much like the bedroom, is trashed. The mirror had been smashed, shards glitter all over the floor, most ground to dust. The shower curtain is ripped from the hooks. It’s strange. The bedroom had been ransacked by someone who had been searching for something. This…this was done in anger. This had been done in disgust. He snorts. That Frederick had managed to disgust someone wasn’t all that surprising. The fact that whoever he had offended had been driven to go so far as to tear apart the man’s bathroom _was_.

He goes back to the common room and tries Alana’s room next. It’s odd here too. Instead of the mess in Frederick’s room, when he walks through her room to the bathroom, he finds no mirror at all. There are no slivers of glass on the floor, none stuck in the frame that’s still hanging. The frame is the only sign that there had ever _been_ a mirror. He stalks out of the room and goes to Jack’s. His bathroom mirror has also been smashed. He feels the same anger here that he had in Frederick’s bathroom. The only one left is the one in Will’s room, but the door had been stuck. He goes back to the common room and paces. _Something_ had slammed the door hard enough for it to stick in the metal frame and even warp it that little bit. What he needed was something just as strong.

He stops his pacing and pulls the bottle of Wendigo formula from his pocket. This is a terrible idea, he tells himself before pulling the syringe from his breast pocket. First, he’s assuming that’s how this is introduced to the system. Second, he has no idea what kind of affect it will have on him, whether or not he’s been given the Ripper formula. If he _has_ been given the Ripper formula, what will happen when he pairs it with the Wendigo? If he _hasn’t_ been given Ripper and introduces Wendigo to his system, what happens then? He opens the bottle, also opening the syringe. He hesitates before slowly pouring the formula in. There's still formula in the bottle when the syringe is full, so he caps it again and puts it back in his pocket. He stares at the syringe and pulls off the cap covering the needle. Now he’s not quite sure how to go about this. Is this something he actually has to get into a vein? Does it matter? Is he really going to do this?

“Look at it like this,” he says aloud, talking it out, “You're stuck here and have no idea who you are. Finding out who you are is important. There could also be important things in the bathroom. As weird as that sounds. What other options do you have? There's someone else out there, probably in the Gallery or outside. I'd rather know who I am before I find that other person. There could possibly be more than one person around somewhere, though that's highly doubtful. This is your best chance at finding out who you are and how to get out of here. Once you know who you are, you can move forward appropriately.”

That said, he takes the needle and pushes it into his arm, depressing the plunger. Mere seconds after that, he starts to feel a burn under his skin. Almost like electricity is running through him. His breathing changes to fast, short breaths. He feels his muscles tighten, fists clenched tight. He lets the burn course through him. It makes him feel strong. Everything is brighter. He can hear the hum of electricity louder than it was before. The scent of antibacterial soap stings his nose. He goes into Will’s room and stalks over to the door, and, grabbing hold of it, pulls, practically ripping it off the hinges. The door slams back against the wall, making him jump at how loud it is as he steps into the bathroom. He feels his muscles tense even more, the hairs standing up on the back of his neck. All of the bathrooms were the same: toilet, sink, and shower cubicle, with a mirror above the sink. This one was the same as well, except where the mirror had been was empty. Which really wasn’t _different_ , but here there isn’t even the frame on the wall. There's a streak of blood on the wall next to the space where the mirror must have been. Some of the tiles around the blank space were missing, as if someone had ripped the mirror off the wall. Whoever had done that had obviously been injured in the process. He looks around the room, finding the mirror on the floor, partly hidden by the toilet, drops of blood on it and around it. He feels his whole body clench as he takes a step closer. He feels an ache in his hand, from a cut he hadn't realized was there before now. He wants to leave, to go back out to the bedroom, anywhere that isn’t here. Instead, he kneels beside the mirror and looks down into it. It takes a few moments to register what, or who, is staring back at him. A young man with brown curls, flecks of red on his face, blood, and a scar shaped like a star burst stares back at him.

The man in the mirror is Will Graham. The newcomer. The skeptic. He leans closer, watching as his eyes dilate more, unevenly so. He watches as the face shifts to show his horror. He knows the man in the mirror is Will Graham. He knows _he_ is the man in the mirror. He, on the surface, recognizes that it means _he_ is Will Graham, but he can't quite bring himself to acknowledge that as fact. He doesn't know anything more about this man than what he's seen in his visions. He doesn't know anything about that man. He knows nothing about this man that is himself. He doesn't know how he came to have blood splattered on his face. He doesn't know how it's come to this. He can feel the panic rising, but then he's saved. He's saved by the swinging of the pendulum.

> _I remember the anger. The hate. The absolute rage. But also the power. Oh the power. To feel so strong when I've been weak for so long. I remember seeing my face in the mirror. I remember thinking, this is the face of a lunatic. This is not me. The anger. Power. So much power. Ripping the mirror off the wall so I no longer have to look at myself. Cutting my hand on the broken glass. Blood. Staring at the blood as it welled in the cut. Shattering every mirror I could find. Anger. Pacing. Rage. Power. Wait. Just wait._

He comes to, the lights shining off the white walls so bright. He’s on the floor, the mirror fallen to the side. His body hurts. He can feel the slight loosening of his muscles. The pain from being so tightly clenched pulsing through him. He stumbles out of the bathroom, falling against the bookcase, triggering the swing of the pendulum.

> _“How did this happen?” I ask, no longer just an observer. My voice is thick, rough with the tears I can feel trailing down my face, “I wanted to help. I wanted to do something, and this was the only thing I could do, but now…I can’t tell where he ends and I begin. I can't tell which thoughts and feelings are mine and which are his. I've been having blackouts, and the anger, Alana, the anger is overwhelming. You don't understand.”_
> 
> _Alana is watching me pace, biting her lip, her eyes wide in a parody of concern. Sure, I can tell she's concerned, but I can't tell if she's concerned about me or about the project. She tries to reach out toward me, but I can't stand the thought of being touched by her again. I turn away, “You don't understand. The anger isn't even the worst part, Alana. The worst part is not knowing what happens during the blackouts. The worst part is not knowing if I'm myself, or if I'm him, if he is me. I've seen what I've done, Alana. The mirrors? Was that me? Or was that him? I don't know! I get flashes of things he's doing, or has done, and I can't stop it. I get flashes of things that I have done, but I don’t remember doing. It’s like there’s another me, and he knows more than he’s telling me. I can't block it. Frederick thinks that it's all about the Wendigo allowing for control. He doesn't understand. None of you understand! That's not how it works. You think it's a power dynamic where the Wendigo is always in control. Where Wendigo always gives you control. That's not how it is. That's not how it works. Every time it tries to control me, it's a fight. I can’t let it take control. I’m still here. I’m not an empty shell. There are so many conflicting thoughts in my head all the time. I can’t give up control, but it’s like fighting a virus. I can’t help but attack the invading force. My body tries to turn against itself to eradicate the intruder.”_
> 
> _“Will, I do understand,” Alana tries to console me, but I know she doesn't really understand. She's trying to placate me. She wants to keep me on a leash. Controlled by them. There's the thing about control again. She speaks again, “We didn't know how strong the Wendigo formula would be when not paired with the Ripper formula, Will. I understand that there are effects from using the sister formula to what we’ve given the other sp-test subject. I understand that it’s hard.”_
> 
> _“You don't understand!” I can't help but yell, “You're not living it. You're not fighting against impulses that may or may not be your own! Alana, please, help me. Reverse it. I know you can. Please. Give me the cure. I need it. I can't do this anymore. It has to be ready. You've been working on it for a while now.”_
> 
> _Alana opens her mouth, closing it immediately. She swallows audibly, her throat bobbing. She starts to speak again, but ends up letting out a harsh cough instead. I’m nervous now, but not nervous in the way that I used to be. No. Now, when I get nervous, I feel the rage bubble up and my muscles cramp with the urge to beat something. She opens her mouth again, this time managing to speak, her tone slow, cautious, unsure, “That's actually why I'm here, Will. Jack wanted me to come talk to you. He’s decided-”_
> 
> _I can't stop the low growl that bubbled up, but as soon as Alana stops talking, I manage to quiet it and gesture for her to continue. She swallows again, “Jack decided that if the next few tests are good, that we can administer the cure by the middle of next week.”_
> 
> _My body sags, the relief I feel at the release of my muscles allows the sigh to leave my lips rather than relief at hearing about the cure, though that is also a great relief. Though…there’s something in her face…_
> 
> _Alana steps back before I can say anything, “Wait. Stop. I-I can't…”_
> 
> _I watch as she stops to take a deep breath. I can feel the tension returning, far quicker than it left. She steps back again and speaks, not looking at me, “Jack didn't say that. Jack says we have to finish the experiment. It has to be complete, no matter what the results are.”_
> 
> _I'm not as surprised as I should be. Jack has never been the type to let a little collateral damage stand in his way, and that's what I am right now to him. Collateral damage. I stay silent, letting Alana get everything out, “He won't administer the cure. He won't even let us formulate the cure.  He wanted me to come talk to you. To tell you about our decision and-”_
> 
> _“’Our’ decision?” I’m shocked that she would include herself in that statement. Was she agreeing with him? “Do you agree with him, Alana?”_
> 
> _She steps back again, her back against the wall, eyes darting to the side before returning to me, “And to lock you in your room until you're needed for further testing.”_
> 
> _“What?” I suppose now makes up for the lack of shock earlier. I can't believe she would do it, “Alana. What’s going on? Really.”_
> 
> _She reaches out and snatches the lanyard holding my ID card and room key from my dresser before sliding back along the wall to the doorway, “I…I am sorry for this, Will. No matter what you think, I never wanted this. But this is the work we have to do. You volunteered, and now you're a specimen. Even before that…”_
> 
> _She steps out quickly, slamming the door shut. I can hear the lock click and then a loud release of breath from Alana before she walks away. I stare at the door for what feels like an eternity before everything registers. Then I feel it. Anger. Rage. Power. Rage. Rage. I can see black started to seep in at the edges of my vision, but I don't black out. No. I see and feel everything as I put my fist through the glass doors of my bookcase. The glass shatters, I feel some slivers sink into my skin. The anger is so strong. I no longer hear her heels against the tiles. I’m alone. Or am I? The black seeps into my vision and the pendulum swings._

Will opens his eyes and stumbles back away from the bookcase, leaving the room. He can feel the anger at Alana bubble up inside himself. He turns toward Frederick’s room, going back, hoping to have more insight after the latest dose of the formula. Walking in, he moves to stand beside the bed. He stares at the bed intently, this time _willing_ the pendulum to swing. And it does.

> _I’m an observer again. Sheets flutter in my peripheral vision and I turn toward the movement. Alana and Jack are here. Jack is dragging the bedding away from the mattress, searching through the mess, not caring about the destruction he’s leaving, trying to find something. Alana is flipping through books, going page by page._
> 
> _“It has to be here,” Jack insists, “He would have written it down, Frederick wouldn't risk forgetting. He would have written it down.”_
> 
> _“He knows the project file through and through, Jack,” Alana replies, “Maybe he picked something from there. Or even his patient files. It could be anything.”_
> 
> _“If you're not helping, leave,” Jack tells her without looking up from his search, “As if you haven't done enough to jeopardize this project.”_
> 
> _She ignores that, “Why do we need the combination anyway, Jack? That's the main gate, we won't need to unlock it to leave. What's it matter if it's still locked?”_
> 
> _“Chilton might come back,” he answers, kneeling beside the bed to peer underneath, “If we don't change it, he could use it to get back in. You know he'd have a field day if he had sole access to all this research, and we can't trust it in his hands.”_
> 
> _“Why not?” She questions, setting the book aside and crossing her arms over her chest, “Why can't we trust it in his hands?”_
> 
> _“He’ll use it,” Jack says, simply, standing back up and turning to face her, “Show me the note again. I need to see exactly what it says.”_
> 
> _Alana pulled a folded note from her pocket and handed it to Jack. His eyes scanned over the page, not looking up when he asks, “And did he say anything when he gave it to you?”_
> 
> _“Jack, you already know this. He came at like three AM, woke me up, shoved the letter at me, and left. He didn't even say a word. Just turned around and walked away,” she tells him._
> 
> _“I don't understand how you just went back to sleep. I don't understand why you didn't read it and wake me immediately. I would've been able to stop him if you had actually done something when it happened.”_
> 
> _“Jack, I'd rather let him leave.”_
> 
> _Jack glares, barking out, “You've ruined EVERYTHING! Can't you see that? The three of us could have handled this, we could have contained it. It wouldn't have been the perfect solution, but we could have done it. Now, with just us, we can't handle all of these issues. We’ll have to leave, abandon the project and our research in this damn place!”_
> 
> _“Are you seriously more worried about the research right now? What about us, Jack? What about making sure we can get away safely? What about Will? Haven’t you done enough harm to him? You just can't stop, can you?” She demands, stepping closer, not moving away even when Jack’s rage is almost tangible._
> 
> _He looks as though he's trying to build up to release the rage, but he deflates, his face falling and his eyes filling with tears, “All I know is that we now have orders to evacuate, to seal off the Ripper project and to get us both home safe for debriefing.”_
> 
> _“What about Will?” Alana asks again, biting her lip._
> 
> _Jack sighs, running a hand over his face, “Alana…the Bureau, and I agree with them, has deemed Will an unmanageable risk and that the risk of helping him is too great. He's in too deep, Alana. We can't save him. He's too far gone. I can’t save him now any more than I could before.”_
> 
> _“What are you talking about?” Alana demands, mouth sets in a firm line, “All he needs is the cure, and for that we just have to mix the Wendigo formula into the Ripper formula and then administer it. They should nullify each other.”_
> 
> _“We don't know what quantities of each formula we'd need for that, and we don't have the time to find out,” Jack admits, tone even, tossing Frederick’s note onto the bed of tangled sheets._
> 
> _“Wendigo at half the original dose and double the dose of the amount of Ripper in Wendigo,” she tells him firmly, nodding at the surprised look on his face, “I've been testing it. Then we just have to mix it and heat it until it starts to change color.”_
> 
> _“You tested when I expressly told you not to?” Jack’s irritation showed, his control slipping the more emotional he gets. He shakes his head, “It's still too risky. If we tried to administer the cure when he's this far in, it could kill him. And that's not considering the risks involved in administering an untested formula. How would we even get the Ripper formula? It's locked up in the Gallery, and you know we can't get in there, not with the Ripper running free. And we don’t know how it will interact with his history.”_
> 
> _“Jack, we have to find a way. There has to be a way.”_
> 
> _“This was supposed to be my chance, Alana, but we failed. I failed, and now we don't have the time to figure it out. I knew you'd do this, you always go for the underdog, wanting to save everyone, so I locked down the labs and Gallery, they're inaccessible in the limited time we have, and there are too many things to do before we can actually leave, which leaves us no time, Alana. There's just no time. He’ll be locked up here with the Ripper. If we're lucky, they'll get rid of each other for us. If they don't, someone will be by to either destroy the facility or clear it out, and they’ll be prepared. Either way, we won’t have to worry about either of them anymore,” Jack explains, moving toward the door._
> 
> _Alana’s face scrunches into something resembling rage and disgust and lunges toward Jack, ready to attack. The pendulum swings and everything goes dark._

He comes back, feeling the ease of the transition, having been in control of it this time. It increases his newfound craving for power, for expressing his power. To be in control of what had previously been uncontrollable. _That_ is true power. He can barely see it amidst the sheets, but he reaches out and grabs Frederick’s note, having been tossed aside and forgotten by Jack and Alana. Chilton’s handwriting left much to be desired, but he could still read it:

> _**“I cannot remain here any longer. I have tried to take control of the situation, but there was nothing to be done. Jack has placed too much on his desire to right his wrongs, and I won’t stay for the final show, I’ve seen enough to know how it ends. I am taking one of the helicopters and flying out immediately. If you want to join me, I will welcome you. We were, after all, colleagues first, before this venture. Meet me near the main entrance in 30 minutes if you wish to leave. I will leave without you if you’re not there. As much as I regret the loss of such research, and such keen specimens, I must put my own life above the desire to help others with theirs. Maybe in the future we can return to the project, but for now we must leave the Devils to play amongst their own. If they release you from this place, otherwise you’ll be the mouse to their cats. I wish you all the best, Alana, and hope to see you soon.                -Frederick Chilton”** _


	8. Sometimes It's Hard To Find The Truth

But he makes a start by choosing to continue going through the rest of the rooms in the residence area again. He’s getting new visions and wants to see what else will unfold if he pushes himself. The next room he visits is Jack’s room. Everything looks normal. The same. He was almost expecting things to look dramatically different. He walks around the room, taking it in again, reveling in the expansion of his senses, letting himself feel the room through his new lens. He can _smell_ how clean the room is, as if Jack regularly went over the room with a bottle of bleach and a toothbrush. The subtle scent of clean laundry now filling his nose. He can also detect the faint scent of what must be Jack underneath all of the other complex smells. This increase in sensation must be one of the side effects from the formula. He knew there was an initial burst of increased strength, but this was new. He walks over to the desk, settling himself on the edge before closing his eyes. He makes the pendulum swing again.

> _I feel such a surge of power, as if I’ve been replenished by reaching for the pendulum myself rather than letting it come to me. I look around the room. Alana, Frederick, and Jack are all standing around the room and I can feel the tension, so thick in the air, signaling another argument._
> 
> _“What, exactly, are you saying, Jack?” Frederick asks, a tinge of anger coloring his words as he glares at the older man, “Feel free to use smaller words if you can't think of any bigger ones.”_
> 
> _Jack returns the glare, his voice harsh when he responds, “Don't be an ass, Frederick. You know, as well as I do, that this isn't my decision. This decision comes from the top.”_
> 
> _“Don't give us that, Jack,” Alana’s face twisted in rage, “You could have told us. You should have told Will! You told him that if things went south, we'd give him the cure. You lied to him, you lied to us. What else have you lied about Jack? Are we just supposed to believe you now? You have no right to refuse him the cure!”_
> 
> _“I’m under direct orders from the Bureau, Alana,” Jack says calmly, his voice like ice, “I'd say that gives me the right. I understand, but there's nothing we can do.”_
> 
> _Frederick maintains his glare, but backs down. Alana opens her mouth to say something, but Jack holds up a hand, stopping her, “What's important now is that Will can't find out what's going on. He's already behaving erratically, becoming more dangerous with each test. Any strong emotion could have him reacting like an atom bomb, and we can't have him do that. It would be disastrous. The side effects are hitting him far stronger than we’d considered.”_
> 
> _Frederick looks at him curiously, opening his mouth to speak, but Alana speaks first, “How long are you going to allow this to go on? How long do we have to allow this to go on?”_
> 
> _“My instructions are to let the formula run its course,” Jack tells them both, face grim, “We have to let the trial complete. Our previous tests show that it shouldn't be more than a few weeks more.”_
> 
> _Frederick flinches, his voice high when he speaks, “But, Jack, look at his responses already! It’s only been a week! Who knows what he’ll be like, how can we-”_
> 
> _“Frederick!” Jack barks, stopping the other man from babbling even more._
> 
> _“But what if, as our previous trials have shown, complete mental breakdown or death occurs once the formula is allowed to run the full course?” Alana asks quietly, eyes staring hard at Jack, into him._
> 
> _“We know that doesn’t always happen, but if it does then at least our results will have been proven and we can continue with the project after some adaptations,” he explains, stunning Frederick and Alana into silence._
> 
> _“Jack,” Frederick speaks now, “if I’m not mistaken, wasn’t the whole purpose of this to fix broken teacups?”_
> 
> _“Frederick,” Alana turns to him, confused, “What on earth are you talking about?”_
> 
> _Jack shuffles some papers on his desk, gathering them together before speaking again, “It was, but we also need to realize that there are rules we must follow and this is an instance when we need to follow the rules as closely as possible or we’ll be shut down. And as much as it pains me, we have to move forward. So, to summarize, we will, unfortunately, not be providing Will with the cure. We are not even able to formulate the cure, so it’s a moot point. If he becomes violent in his demands for the cure, we can administer a placebo, but nothing more than that. Those are our orders, people. You can hate me if it makes you feel better, but as the head of this project, it’s on me to obey and to make sure the rest of you fall in line. This could still work out. Will might yet come under control.”_
> 
> _Jack turns to Alana, but she's already stormed out of the room. He then turns to Frederick, “Keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn't do anything stupid, and report back to me.”_
> 
> _Frederick’s mouth tightens at the corners, but he nods before turning to leave, limping out of the room. I close my eyes and will the pendulum to swing._

He blinks open his eyes and looks around the room one more time before leaving. Next is the dining room. He looks around as he had in the previous rooms, trying to get a feel for the room. Is there more to be learned from here? He walks over to the calendar pinned to the cork board. Apparently, it’s February, or it had been when it had last been changed. There are a couple of things noted on the calendar: dates for tests, completion dates for different trial phases, holidays, meetings. He closes his eyes, letting the pendulum swing.

> _I open my eyes and find myself sitting at the table. Jack is across from me and Alana and Frederick are across from each other at the other sides of the table. Everyone looks serious. Alana and Frederick are looking at Jack, so I follow suit, which seems to be the key. Jack speaks, trying to cover the stress with authority, “As you all know, we've finally perfected the Wendigo and Ripper formulas. The cure has also been completed. Unfortunately, we've hit an obstacle. The Bureau has allowed Frederick to provide the test specimen for the full run of the trial, but refuse to provide anyone as a test subject for the Wendigo formula alone. This, as we know, has been something we also need to test on human subjects, to determine the full range of effects from not only the drug interactions with each other, but for the benefit of determining whether both are truly required. Before we can allow other facilities to test the formulas, we have to learn exactly what effects the formulas have, together and separate. That said, we can't do that through animal testing. We’ve taken animal testing as far as we can for both phases. We all know the Bureau has allowed Frederick to bring in a test specimen for the dual formula trial run. They still expect us to provide results on the separate effects as well. There is a relatively simple solution here. The Wendigo formula trial will help us determine how much of the manipulative effects lie in that formula rather than both together. This can be done with anyone.”_
> 
> _The three of us are watching him, waiting for him to finish. I feel tense. I know where he’s going with this. And I know exactly what my reaction is going to be. Jack sighs, looking each of us in the face, lingering on Chilton a second too long, before saying, “What I'm asking for, my friends, is a volunteer.”_
> 
> _Alana and Frederick are silent, looking only at the table. Alana looks troubled, but Chilton kind of just looks smug. Like he already knows the outcome here. And maybe he does. I feel myself leaning forward, “Alright, Jack. I’ll do it. You've yet to convince me that your project is worth it. This may be the best way to do that. So. I’ll do it.”_
> 
> _Alana gasps, her eyes wide as they flick between me and Jack, “Jack…no, you can't let him do this.”_
> 
> _Frederick speaks up as well, almost sounding bored in his response, “My only concern is how against the project he’s been. He could skew the results in the negative. He’s been determined to see the end of the Ripper Project from the beginning. He could end this for all of us if he’s the subject.”_
> 
> _“That is your objection?” Alana growls, interrupting him._
> 
> _I’m only a little surprised that Frederick would continue to bring up the fact that they wanted someone who fully believed in the project. Jack had only asked me to commit to it, and I did. My commitment doesn’t necessarily include my agreement. It just means I’ll be here to work the problems and try to convince them how they’re wrong._
> 
> _Shrugging, Frederick nods, “We need to be able to test the formula on someone open to the experience, Alana. Will, here, isn't quite who I would choose in that respect.”_
> 
> _Alana opens her mouth, but is stopped by Jack, “Enough. Will, I don't think that will be a problem. The only concern I have is your empathy disorder.”_
> 
> _“Thank you, Jack,” Alana nods in agreement, turning to me, “Will, this kind of drug will open you up to manipulation and control. You may not know how you truly feel if you’re reflecting back someone else’s emotion. This will also mean you have to interact with the other specimen, and after the introduction of the formula, you’ll be open. Completely open. You can't open yourself up like that. It’s too risky.”_
> 
> _I feel anger rise in me. Alana had been pulling away recently and I don’t know why, so how she can sit there and be concerned strikes me as a bit false. My jaw clenches, “I'm doing it. This is my chance to find out what you're all so excited about. This is my chance to see, once and for all, how the drug works. There's always the cure if things go south. The three of you will be monitoring my response to the formula, and I trust you to know what to look for. If you truly thought my mental abilities would compromise me, you shouldn't have asked me here, though I'm beginning to realize this is exactly what Crawford was hoping would happen. Am I right?”_
> 
> _“I didn't expect it,” Jack begins, but nods, “but I was hoping. And if you hadn’t volunteered, I may have ended up asking you in the end. We need to compare the reactions you and the other specimen have. You'll have the best chance of monitoring the state of the Ripper specimen, determining the effect of that drug, while we monitor you. He’s going to undergo that part of the trial first, and we need you to help us determine how long Ripper takes to work. Then we’ll introduce Wendigo to you both at the same time. You’ll spend significant time monitoring the other specimen prior to your own trial beginning.”_
> 
> _I can feel Alana nudging my foot with hers, but I pull away. I suppose I’ll have to talk with her about this later. I nod at Jack and he grins, “In that case, we thank you, Will Graham, for volunteering to be part of this project. I already have everything set up, so we can begin the trial tomorrow, introducing the Ripper formula to subject 1327. Think of what this can do for the Bureau, and for mankind. A successful application of the Ripper and Wendigo formulas can lead to a new way of solving crimes and rehabilitating criminals.”_
> 
> _I let it all fade away as the pendulum swings._

He knows he's now seen all he can here. He's not surprised that he would volunteer. From the other visions, he's gotten the sense that he was being led there all along. Why else would they want a man with an empathy disorder to work on a project like this? Now they have an even better blood hound. Even if it turned out worse than they had initially thought it might. He also isn't surprised by that. Jack Crawford, while he wouldn't quite say the man was idealistic, was very goal oriented, very much driven by the end result. Maybe it would have worked. Maybe the Ripper subject had been stronger than they all realized. Maybe the Ripper formula hadn't worked as it was intended to. The behavior modification would have had to start with suppressing memories, or forcing amnesia. Only after that could they begin to work on building up the correct behaviors. Something had failed. He needed to find out what that was. He needed to find Hannibal Lecter.

Until then, he thinks he has an idea for the passcode of the main door now.


	9. One Of The Few Constants Here Is The Cold

The chill nearly makes him turn back, but he wants to know everything now. He needs to know. It's no longer about getting out. He doesn't even feel like getting out is a priority at all anymore. His only need now is knowledge on what happened before he woke up on the floor, and what part he played in it all.

The entry area had always been one of the coldest areas in the facility, somehow getting the draft from outside. While his clothes provided a little barrier against the chill, he was about to walk outside, where he would get hit with the full brunt of it. He was trying to prepare himself for it. He reaches out to the keypad next to the bulkhead. He taps out “ **1327** ”. There's a hiss as the door lock unseals. Bracing himself, he opens the door.

He's nearly pushed back with the blast of freezing air in his face, but he isn't. He's standing at the bottom of a steep stairwell that leads up to the west, where he can see a square of grey light. This is the entry stairwell. He's not quite out yet, but he will be when he gets to the top. He plods up the stairs, the cold slowing him, until he's finally out. His eyes sting from the wind. He closes his eyes against the brightness of the snow, gently opening first one eye, then the other. Giving them time to adjust before looking around. The sun seems to be beginning its ascent. So, it's morning. Always good to have some sort of time gauge. Though it doesn’t really seem to matter. He doesn’t feel tired, or hungry. He’s not quite sure what’s going on there, but it might just be a good thing right now. At least he doesn’t have to worry about stopping to eat and sleep, wasting time when he could, should, be trying to figure things out.

He looks around him. There's nothing else here, with the exception of a small shed to the southeast, obviously an extension of the facility. All around him is a vast, desolate tundra. The only thing here is the facility. It was a purposeful move, he’s sure, having the facility in a place where it is the sole structure for who knows how many miles. The entirety of nature here is off putting. He's being attacked by the cold, by the wind. He's being treated as an invader in this frigid landscape, and it's trying its best to see him done in. He feels the cold to his very bones, feeling the burn of the cold that could soon turn into frostbite. He's an invader in this land and it wants him dead for it. He's not sure he would deny it that. It’s no wonder that no one else would try to build here.

He makes his way southeast, to the shed, quickly going inside, rubbing his arms, breathing into his cupped hands, trying to bring feeling back. There are shelves along the walls, holding various machine parts, oil cans, tools, some spare batteries. There's an oil can on the floor. He kicks it gently. It’s empty. He can hear the howling of the wind against the walls, which do nothing to insulate against the cold. He can hear the wind battering the sides of the shed and, feeling the vision coming, let's himself be taken by the pendulum’s swings.

> _I can still hear the wind here. The cold still permeates my bones. Frederick comes in, breathing hard, carrying a gas can, his face white. He drops the gas can, uncaring as it falls to the ground, and limps out. I can see his leg is a mess, his prosthetic is damaged irreparably and he ends up having to drag it behind him as he hurries out. I hear the sound of the helicopter blades starting, whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh, as it takes off, Frederick gone with it. The pendulum swings, taking me back._

He rubs his arms again, as soon as he's back to full consciousness, trying to keep the blood flowing, trying to keep at least a little less cold, because he sure as hell knows keeping warm isn’t going to happen. Once he's warded off some of the chill, he heads back out into the frigid air, but only to make his way back to the facility. There’s nothing out here to see, to find. If he needed help, he wouldn’t find it out there. He’d only find death in the jaws of the tundra.

He glances around one more time. The helicopter had to have taken off from here, by how close it sounded, but there was no sign it had ever been there, snow had long since covered over any tracks that would have made it obvious. He goes down the stairwell, slamming the door behind him once he's inside. It would probably be a good idea to grab one of the blankets to wrap himself in to warm up, but before he can walk that direction, he feels his skin heating, slowly at first, but then almost instantly. In only moments, the chill from outside is gone. His skin is as warm as it had ever been in this place. Could be a side effect of the formula. It _has_ to be.

He pulls the notepad with his map out of his pocket and adds the new area. There are only two places left to explore, and his curiosity about the Gallery is great. It’s the only place left to explore, and he’s sure the visions he’ll receive there will be the final puzzle pieces he’s been missing. That could be the end of it. He walks through the facility, the red light still flashing as he makes his way down the east hall to the Gallery Junction. Once inside, he makes a beeline for the sliding glass doors to the south, using Jack’s green ID card to open the doors. They slide open and he walks inside, hearing a crack as he takes his first step. Moving his foot, he sees a vial marked “FORMULA: RPPR1327” broken on the floor. That must be why the alarms were going off. He doesn't know if the formula has any airborne properties, but he's already been exposed, so there's nothing for it now. He wonders briefly about how it would interact with the Wendigo formula already in his system, or if it would have _any_ reaction. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t remember anything. Or maybe the lights are just a precaution.

He looks around, taking in the room. It's only lit by the red warning lights and the light coming in from the doors to the north, which is the only way in and out of the room. The walls are made up of built in shelves that are filled with rows and rows of glass vials and test tubes. They're protected by the glass doors that slide open and shut on each shelf. There's one shelf that's open, and he can see that the Ripper vial had fallen from there. There was another vial on the shelf, also marked “FORMULA: RPPR1327”, so he takes it. Alana had said, in his vision, that the cure required the Ripper formula as well. He looked at the other shelves, trying to find more of the corresponding Wendigo formula, but he couldn't find any. One of the shelves was completely empty, though, so maybe someone had been in here and taken them. He needed to find that formula if he wanted to cure himself before leaving this place. Until then, he wanted to know more. He leaves the room, letting the doors slide shut, automatically locking, behind him before walking over to the east doors. This time, he looks closely at the alcove, but there's only a little switch. He flips the switch and watches as light fills the room behind the glass doors, streaming down through the beautiful glass dome ceiling. The switch controls the cover on the dome, controls the light. He uses the ID card to open the doors, his hands shaking in anticipation. He barely steps a foot into the room when the pendulum swings.

> _I'm standing at a railing, on a circular metal walkway in the middle of the room, overlooking a lower Gallery and seeing a Gallery above. There are staircases that go up and down to my left and right. The room is spectacular. The light streaming in showing it off to the best possible advantage. I hear someone move to stand beside me. I glance over and see Jack, who is watching my reaction, “What do you think, Will?”_
> 
> _“It's beautiful,” I say, honestly, “but what do you keep in here?”_
> 
> _Jack grins, “This is the Gallery. Just down, you have the Terran Gallery, another level under that one is the Aquatic Gallery, and up is the Avian Gallery. Typically used to separate test subjects. The type of subject drastically affects the formula and behavior after injection. The mice are kept in cages downstairs, as are the other earthbound animals, the lowest is basically a huge aquarium for our water bound subjects, and upstairs is where we keep the birds, chickens, and other air based animals.”_
> 
> _“Wow,” I can't help it from escaping on my sigh._
> 
> _Jack laughs, clapping a hand on my shoulder, “I know. I had the same reaction when I first saw it. The switch outside controls the dome shades. We try to leave them open as much as possible, but when a storm comes in or when the wind is particularly strong, we have to shutter them.”_
> 
> _They both stand there, taking it in before Jack removes his hand and starts toward the stairs that lead up, “Ready to see the animals, Will?”_
> 
> _I feel the grin on my face before the pendulum swings._

He opens his eyes and follows the shadow images of himself and Jack up, to the Avian Gallery. He can’t help but feel tense. Unsure as to why, he feels like something else is here already, watching him. The stairs have brought him to a walkway that leads to the actual Gallery. He walks over quickly, not looking down, just wanting to see what sort of animals were still here. He looks around as soon as he’s across…

There are cages everywhere, some are taller, but they're all domed aviary cages. The larger cages contain still creatures, some as large as he is, all staring at him. Some scratch about in their cages, others just watch. The smaller cages contain animals he can recognize easily: hummingbirds, pigeons, sparrows, and others that he knows are normal. The others…the others may be initial subjects of the Ripper and Wendigo formulas. They're all emaciated, some have eyes that seem to be glowing red. It was as if they plucked these creatures straight out of a nightmare. He walks over to a cage holding hummingbirds, realizing that they're not fluttering about. He sees immediately that they're all dead. Lying at the bottom of the cage, or hanging from the side, stuck in the thin wires. He gags, unprepared for the…sick display here. He walks back toward the stairwell, but stops in the middle of the walkway, pushing the pendulum this time rather than coaxing it.

> _I’m leaning against the railing when I come back to myself. The light has changed, showing the evening sunset rather than the early morning sunrise. The hummingbirds are alive and fluttering about happily in their cages, the sparrows call to each other. I can feel the life here. I look to my right and find Alana, gazing up at the light filtering in._
> 
> _“I'm so glad you've come to work with us, Will,” she tells me, reaching for my hand, caressing my fingers, “Things have become so tense since Miriam…”_
> 
> _“I’m sorry,” I reply, not knowing what else to say, but enjoying the feel of her hands on mine._
> 
> _“It's nothing to do with you,” she smiles, “I mean, my feelings now are, but not Miriam. She made her own choices, not letting the rest of us help her. I'm glad you're here now. You talk to us, you tell us your concerns. You're more open than she ever was.”_
> 
> _I don't think Alana actually liked Miriam, or at least her behavior now and everything before now has made me think she doesn't really care at all what happened to the other woman. I watch Alana as she turns her eyes back to the dome. We've lapsed into silence, but I can feel by the way she's shifting around that she has more she wants to say. She doesn't disappoint, “Will?”_
> 
> _“Yes?”_
> 
> _“Will you help me? Will you help us?” She sighs, “I know you have your doubts, but I believe that you can truly help us better the project. I believe in you.”_
> 
> _I focus on her face, her earnest face, as she turns to me again, her head tilted back. I lean in, sure that I’m reading the situation correctly, and touch my lips to hers. Soft. That's the only thing in my mind. Her lips are so soft. I feel her lips move, softening further, opening to me. I accept her offer and deepen the kiss. There's nothing but us for several long minutes as I bury my hands in her hair, creating a tangled halo of her waves. Ever since I arrived, I’ve been drawn to her kindness, to her beauty. I had been hoping she felt at least a little of what I do. I feel my heart swell at the returned affection. If someone as good, as gentle as her can be attracted to me, then it doesn’t matter what the others think. My special way of thinking, as we call it, doesn’t matter._
> 
> _When I finally pull back, her lips are red, swollen, and her eyes. Her eyes. They're dilated, and I can see how she wants to lean back in, but I hold her head still, moving my hands to cup her cheeks, “Alana. We can't do this here. You know that. What if someone sees?”_
> 
> _She jerks away, eyes widening briefly before she nods, “You're right. We can't do this here. Meet me later? My room? After our meeting?”_
> 
> _I find myself nodding and accepting the quick kiss she presses to my lips before she rushes down the stairs. I turn back to watch as the fading sun lets in even less light. I'm there for who knows how long before I hear it. It's very faint, but I can just barely make it out._
> 
> _“Wiiiillllll.”_
> 
> _The pendulum swings._

**“ _Warning: Main power supply low_.”**

He jumps, not sure if he was surprised by the mechanical voice announcing he would soon be losing power, or if it was the strange lilting voice almost hissing his name in the vision that stunned him. He looks up at the dome, recognizing the early morning light again. No longer in his vision. That must have been the instance he was referring to in the earlier vision. Or maybe that was the instance that started it all. It couldn’t have gone straight to bad just from that. He remembers mentioning more instances in that vision in Alana’s room. She had, apparently, been prone to inviting him to her room. To her bed. He can feel anger at her behavior rising. He shakes himself and thinks back on this most recent vision. He already recognizes there’s something there of great important. He thinks it may have been the voice calling to him at the end. He turns back to the stairwell and resumes his course, making his way back to the landing at the entrance, then continuing down the shorter flight to what Jack had referred to as the Terran Gallery. There’s another stairwell well down, leading to what can only be the Aquatic Gallery, but there's another walkway across to a platform full of cages. Most are empty, but there are several with rabbits, dogs, snakes, and even several monkeys. Though, as with the Avian Gallery, there are some unrecognizable creatures, and many dead. He doesn't go in too far, knowing what he’ll find in the cages. They're in the same, or similar, conditions as the others in the above gallery. He walks down the final stairwell to the Aquatic Gallery. The walls are composed of aquariums. Several are smaller ones stacked to build a wall, but there are a couple large ones that fill the walls. The fish and aquatic animals had received the same treatment. Dead, dying, or distorted into unfamiliar creatures. There's a faint patch of light in the center of the room and he watches the pendulum swing.

> _I’m now standing in the middle of the gallery, the aquariums now full of living fish and other sea creatures. Wholly recognizable. Far above me, I can hear voices arguing. I can recognize Frederick’s voice, and Jack’s, but not the third. A woman. Not Alana, though._
> 
> _“I'm not sure I understand what you're doing here, Miriam,” Jack says, his voice angry, “Are you planning on disregarding the orders we've just received? Are you planning on setting them all free?”_
> 
> _I hear Frederick’s very familiar scoff preceding his voice, “You always were an idealistic Girl Scout, Miriam.”_
> 
> _“Jack,” the woman, Miriam, pleads, “You have to see! How can you be so blind? What you're wanting to do goes against everything I know about you.”_
> 
> _“We have orders, Miriam,” Jack tells her, sounding tired, “We have to follow orders, not contradict or question them.”_
> 
> _“I'm done with just following orders,” she tells him, “Frederick, please, you have to see! You're meaning to bring in one of your prisoners!”_
> 
> _“Yes, Miriam,” Frederick sounds proud, “One of my prisoners. I'll have control over him and the formula will render him completely into our care.”_
> 
> _Her voice is higher pitched, as if she senses, as I do, that there is nothing she can do to stop this, “What we've developed here could ruin humanity. Haven't the animal tests proven that? How can you even think a human trial is acceptable with the kind of results we've been receiving through animal testing? I'm drawing the line, Jack. This is it. I'm done.”_
> 
> _“Are you?” He asks, “We’ll have to find a suitable replacement, but, Miriam, know this. If you're done here, you're done with the Bureau. They won't accept noncompliance. I've been lenient with you here. They wouldn't tolerate your brand of insubordination.”_
> 
> _“I think they'd be willing to listen,” she tells him, her voice now smug, “If I talk to the right people, you'll be shut down in weeks. I know what you’re planning to do. You want Will Graham here. I know it. You think you’re so subtle, but I can see it, Jack.”_
> 
> _I’m surprised that she knows my name. Seems to know who I am. Had they wanted to bring me in before?_
> 
> _“I don't think that's quite right,” Frederick says, his voice controlled, calculating, “Not after your accident.”_
> 
> _“Accident?” Miriam’s voice is confused. She doesn't know what's coming. Not like I do._
> 
> _“Frederick, Miriam hasn't been involved in any accidents here,” Jack says, confusion also coloring his tone._
> 
> _“No?” Frederick asks, then there's the sound of brief struggle before a woman's scream coming closer and closer to me. I step back just as Miriam’s body hits the floor._
> 
> _“FREDERICK!”_
> 
> _“Relax, Jack. I just did what had to be done.”_
> 
> _“How can you stand there and try to explain this away?” Jack yells._
> 
> _“I was looking out for the future of the project, Jack. Far better than you were. Now only you and I know your plans. She would have ruined everything, and then where would you be? Where would I be? As it stands now, it’s not our fault that things got to be too much for her. None of us were here when she chose to jump, Jack. And she did choose to jump. That's the only way this project can move forward now.”_
> 
> _The pendulum starts to swing as I hear a low chuckle from behind me._

Will can still hear the chuckle when he opens his eyes, echoing through his mind. But then he realizes that, no. It’s not in his mind. He actually hears it. Behind him. A soft exhale of a chuckle. Clothing shifting. His muscles tense, fists clenching. Almost willing himself to turn, but afraid of what he would see.

“Hello, Will.”


	10. The Pendulum Swings Before He Can Turn Around

> _I’m no longer in the Aquatic Gallery, but the Terran Gallery. Jack, Alana, and Frederick walk in from the sliding glass doors to the west. Alana walks ahead, a grim look on her face, Jack and Frederick trailing behind her. They seem to be dragging…someone…along between them. I can't see clearly, yet, who this newcomer is, but they have him, or her if it's a rather tall, broad woman, trussed up in a strait jacket, connected to a moving cart, a white mask with only a few holes for air over the face. They've brought him across the walkway to the cage area. I can tell for sure now that it's a man. Jack looks intrigued at the prospect of having a human test subject, as I'm now sure this is, and Frederick looks downright gleeful as Alana looks around, determining where to put him._
> 
> _“Over here, Jack,” Alana directs, waving toward the back of the platform, where a large cage sits empty, mostly hidden by the others. He and Frederick wheel the man over. I can see him better now, at least what’s visible anyway. His ash blonde hair is trimmed short, not flattering, but not unattractive to look at either. I can only see his face from the eyes up, but that's enough. It's the eyes that catch my attention. They're dark, but that's not what's unusual. The unusual thing is that they're almost empty. Distant. As if he's not really here. I step closer, trying to peer into his eyes to see…anything, but they remain empty._
> 
> _“I’m so pleased we can begin the next phase of the project, Jack,” Frederick says, nearly vibrating in his excitement, “I'm glad the Bureau was willing to take my recommendation into consideration and use one of my patients for the first trial. It will be a great success when the Ripper formula works on one such as Hannibal Lecter. Ironic that the Chesapeake Ripper should be the first to experience the effects of the Ripper formula.”_
> 
> _Alana and Jack exchange looks, Alana rolling her eyes before Jack shakes his head, “Any success with human subjects will be a great success, Frederick.”_
> 
> _“Yes,” Frederick agrees, thoughtfully, “but imagine how the Bureau would react when they find out that the formula is not only successful, but successful to the extent that it can override a mind like his.”_
> 
> _Jack nods, “I imagine that would be quite a coup.”_
> 
> _“A coup?” Frederick laughs, “Jack, it would be more than a simple coup. It would be the triumph of the decade. No one knows how far behavior modification has advanced in these last few years, much less how far we've pushed it in the last several months. Imagine this: a world where we no longer have to keep all prisoners locked away, but could rewrite their history, their way of thinking, and make them work for us to find others like them. ‘It takes one to catch one’, that's the saying, Jack, and not without reason. You, more than anyone, know that.”_
> 
> _“But won't we be taking away that part of their memories?” Alana questions, “Won't the formula remove that way of thinking?”_
> 
> _“It will, but then we reprogram him with it, but spun in a different way. He would no longer be hunting for himself and his desires, but for our needs and wants. He would be a blood hound for the Bureau,” Frederick grins, “And I, personally, cannot wait to tell him what he will become.”_
> 
> _“I’m surprised that we were given the go ahead on human trials,” Alana says, head tilted in thought, “After that round of side effects, I was afraid we’d have to scrap the whole thing. I’m glad the next variation turned it around.”_
> 
> _“Alright,” Jack stops her before she can say any more, sharing a look with Frederick, “Enough. We need to get him in his cage before the drugs wear off.”_
> 
> _The image fades as Jack and Frederick wrestle with the man’s dead weight to get him into his cage. The pendulum swings._

When he comes to, he doesn’t even wait for the disorientation to wear off before he spins around, but no one is there. Feeling annoyance, but also a twinge of anticipation for the hunt-

No, he stops his thought, this isn't a hunt. It's a search. Trying to find out what happened to the test subject. That does little to quell the rising tide inside him that's nearly salivating at the thought of a hunt. He doesn’t understand why he's thinking that way, but he practically sprints up the stairs and walks across to the Terran Gallery platform before he realizes what he’s doing. He walks around the back to find the cage Lecter had been brought to. Empty. But open. He closes his eyes and let's the pendulum swing.

> _“Now that you've officially signed on for the Wendigo formula trial, we can show you your counterpart in the project, the man who will be given the full cycle. You'll work closely with this man, but before we actually begin the trial, I want you to take some time to get to know him. We've only done basic preparation for his part in the trial, and we want you to get a sort of baseline on his personality before we move forward,” Jack’s voice comes from beside me as we walk across the walkway to the Terran Gallery platform, “That way we can detect changes in personality, determine how well the Ripper formula works before administering the Wendigo formula. As it is now, we don’t have any sort of idea what’s normal to him and couldn’t tell you if running around naked would be out of sorts for him.”_
> 
> _Something in Jack’s voice has changed, making me think he’s lying about something, but I don’t know what he could be lying about, or why. Had he worked with the man before? He had been sent to Chilton at BSHCI, so maybe Jack had encountered the man before, or even been the one to put him away._
> 
> _I look around the platform Jack had brought us to. I've been over here before, but hadn't had any time when I was unsupervised to actually look around. I’ve also yet to be allowed in the back area of the platform. I knew they had something back there, but I hadn't known it was another person. I feel my stomach clench, revulsion at the thought of another person being stuck in a cage for who knows how long. A cage. As we get closer, I can feel the hairs on my neck stand up. Jack stops in front of a cage that's covered by a thick blanket. He turns to me, “Will, you need to be prepared. I know you've read the file on Lecter, but you need to prepare yourself, mentally. You can't get too close to this.”_
> 
> _I nod, my jaw clenched tight before I can loosen it enough to grind out, “Just remove the blanket, Jack.”_
> 
> _He does. My eyes immediately fall on the man in the cage. He's sitting with his back against the far side of the cage, legs stretched out in front of him, a book in his hands. He looks up and our eyes meet. Maroon. His eyes are a dark maroon. I can see his entire life in those eyes. I can almost see my life in those eyes. Something flashes in them, but I can’t tell what. Surprise? I can hear Jack speaking, but I'm just trying to focus on not drowning in the images flashing through my mind. I had already known this man was a murderer, had even seen photographs of his crimes. I had even consulted on this man’s crimes, however briefly. I can’t remember much about them other than that I had consulted on them, seen them before. In more detail than the photographs, I’m sure of it, but it’s all a little vague in my mind. What I do recall, though, is that his scenes had always been just the wrong side of beautiful. They had been a performance. He had wanted someone to see them. I can see how this man had executed such a delicate, intricate dance with each of his victims before making them greater than they were. Before, they were pigs, useless. After, after he had them, they became art. He elevated them, but not for their sake. For his. But also for someone else. He used the meat to create another kind of art, for his guests and himself, to dine on._
> 
> _Jack’s voice gets a little louder, but it's still as if I'm underwater. It's only when he grabs my arm that I realize I've been walking closer to the cage. I turn to look at him and find concern warring with what looks like approval in his eyes. Is he glad I’ve connected with the man? Worried about how connected? Those don’t seem quite right, but I can’t find anything else in his eyes. I’m quick to reassure him, even though I'm not sure even I believe it, “I'm find, Jack. Guess I didn't brace myself as well as I thought.”_
> 
> _He lets go of my arm, “If you're sure.”_
> 
> _I nod, but can’t meet his eyes when I know I’m sending him away not for the purpose of the project, but for my own selfish interest in knowing this man, “I am. You can go, let us get acquainted.”_
> 
> _Jack looks closely at my face, I'm avoiding his eyes, but I can see he's satisfied with whatever he was looking for. Again, the approving light comes into his eyes, “Alright. I'll just be in the lab, so come find me when you're done and we can talk more about what to expect tomorrow. We’ll need your assistance in preparing him for the first injection.”_
> 
> _I nod and look down, watching his feet walk away. I can hear Lecter stand, stalking closer to the front of the cage. I imagine this is what a gazelle must feel like before the lion pounces._
> 
> _“William. Will.”_
> 
> _The lilting accented voice floats up to me, nearly purring, almost sounding…pleased, happy. I nod, “Yes, Will Graham. And you're Hannibal Lecter. I’ve read your case files.”_
> 
> _We’re both silent for several moments. I'm trying to work myself up to looking at him again, but what I had seen in his eyes had been…tempting. I could let him overwhelm me, but that's not what my job is. I'm supposed to get to know him, but only enough to know what’s normal for him._
> 
> _He speaks again before I can bring myself to look, “You’ve…read my files?”_
> 
> _“Yes,” I tell him, “I’m pretty sure I consulted on several of the scenes before, but Jack gave me your file earlier to read up on you.”_
> 
> _I can feel his eyes on me. There’s something there, but I can’t tell what it is without looking, and I’m still not sure I want to yet. He speaks again before I’ve made my decision, his tone hesitant, “You were one of the profilers working the Chesapeake Ripper cases. I remember you. Freddie Lounds wrote of you often. She often wrote of your unique gift.”_
> 
> _That gets my attention and I finally look at him. I avoid his eyes, already knowing what lies in their depths. His cheekbones are high and wide, lips thin and cruel, but also, somehow, soft. He’s wearing standard hospital issue scrubs in white. I focus on his chin, “Freddie Lounds writes about anything that goes through her head, whether it's supported by facts or not. I wouldn't believe everything you read.”_
> 
> _“Oh, I never do, did,” Lecter tells me, nonchalantly, a trace of hesitance still there but not as much, or as obvious, as before, “But she did make me curious. She said that you can think like the killers you hunt. Is that true?”_
> 
> _I don't really know what to say. Do I tell the truth? I find myself nodding without thinking further on it. I can see Lecter nod, thoughtfully, “She said something about an empathy disorder. Is that true?”_
> 
> _“I prefer to think of it as having a strong imagination,” I tell him._
> 
> _“Not fond of eye contact, are you?”_
> 
> _Something about that catches me by surprise. It’s almost…familiar. My eyes jump, almost meeting his, but I catch them in time and look at his cheekbone instead, “Eyes are distracting. You see too much, you don't see enough, and it's hard to focus when you're thinking, ‘those whites are too white’ or ‘oh, is that a burst vein?’ So, yeah, I try to avoid eyes whenever possible.”_
> 
> _That also sounded familiar, but it also seemed…right._
> 
> _“I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind,” Lecter says, sounding almost like he’s reciting something from memory, but it's surprising how easily he can see me._
> 
> _Then I remember the file. His occupation when he had been caught. He was a psychiatrist. I glare at him, or more accurately, in his general direction, “Don't psychoanalyze me. You won't like me when I'm psychoanalyzed.”_
> 
> _Familiar. I ignore the twinge in my gut. I can feel Lecter’s eyes on me as I shift. He moves forward even more, taking a deep, but subtle breath. If I haven't been watching as closely as I am, I don't think I would have noticed, “Did…did you just smell me?”_
> 
> _“Yes,” he tells me simply, not elaborating, instead says, “What you have is pure empathy, Will. You can assume my point of view, or Jack’s, and maybe more that scare you. It has to be uncomfortable. Is that why you stopped consulting with the FBI?”_
> 
> _“I stopped consulting because I had encephalitis,” I admit, “and that made me re-evaluate some things. I moved to teaching only, until Jack and the others here requested me. Now I’m here.”_
> 
> _“Hmm,” was the only sign that Lecter had heard me, it was a thoughtful sound, almost as if he was trying to piece something together.. I continue, “When your nightmares get so bad that you're buried in bodies and blood every night, not sure if you love it or hate it, or when you worry about what you've done during a black out because you've been in the minds of killers for most of your adult life, that is when you should take a good, hard look at what you're doing and decide if it's worth it.”_
> 
> _“You were saving lives, and thought that would be enough to push you past it all,” Lecter says, and I can tell that he already knows he's right, “but it wasn't.”_
> 
> _“No,” I agree, “At one time, it would've been enough, but when I woke up in the hospital and realized I had friends around me, worried about me, for me, I knew I couldn't keep doing it. I moved to strictly teaching after that and haven't looked back since.”_
> 
> _“Until now,” Lecter adds._
> 
> _“Until now,” I agree._
> 
> _“Thank you, dear Will, for spending time with me,” Lecter says, walking slowly back to his spot at the back of the cage, “I look forward to our future conversations. I think we both have plenty to think on now.”_
> 
> _I nod, the scene fading as I turn away slowly. The pendulum swings on the image of Hannibal Lecter in his cage._


	11. Standing In Front Of The Cage Releases An Avalance Of Memories

Because he’s now acknowledging them as memories, not just visions. Once they start, he doesn't know how to stop them. Each one overwhelming him. All of them conversations with the killer.

> _“How is it that you were brought here, dear Will?”_
> 
> _We've had enough conversations by now that I can bring myself to meet his eyes. Jack had decided to postpone the trial to give me the time to build a relationship with Hannibal, to make the other man trust me. That way, when the time comes, he should be more willing to be honest in his answers to the unknown number of questions I’ll be asking about his condition when we get started with the formulas. I’m not sure that will work as well as Jack is expecting, but I don’t think it will hurt anything. Not anything that isn't already compromised. As it is, I find myself enjoying our conversations more and more with each visit. There’s something about being with Hannibal that is so familiar, so comfortable. I feel almost like we’ve known each other for years rather than a few short weeks. I feel like there’s something…just out of my grasp, too. Something I don’t know that maybe I should. Something that Hannibal knows and won’t tell me. As it is, I've learned much about Hannibal’s life before he was caught and sent to Chilton at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Hannibal frequently describes Frederick as a “collector of psychopaths” and has told me a few stories about his time under the man’s care, if it could be called that. I know everything he’s telling me is truth, and it’s frightening how I’ve come to trust Hannibal to always tell the truth, at least to me. With me._
> 
> _“Do you miss it?” He asks, eyes genuinely curious, realizing that I wasn't going to answer his previous question. The thing is, I don't even know the answer to how I was brought here. I remember someone coming to my class to say I'd been chosen to participate in a project. I didn't get any information on the project until we were on our way, and that was it. I think._
> 
> _“Sometimes I think I might,” I admit when I refocus on his last question, “but then I think about the toll it has on me. It's not worth it.”_
> 
> _“Our old lives hover in the shadows, Will,” he tells me, “It's dark on the other side, and madness is waiting.”_
> 
> _“Is the madness in knowing what I could be doing, but losing myself to do it?” I ask in response. Sometimes our conversations have led to philosophical questions. One of the many reasons I enjoy our time together._
> 
> _“What if it's not losing yourself, but shedding a skin, or transforming into something better?” Hannibal retorts, “Maybe you're a caterpillar transforming. You've built your chrysalis and will emerge a butterfly. Maybe you already have.”_
> 
> _Hannibal, for all his elegance and subtleties, has never been able to hide his desire for me to become like him. He likes to tell me that I have “potential”. He’s also constantly teasing me with hints of things I don’t know. I turn my attention to his nose, “Maybe, but who’s to say which it is?”_
> 
> _“You, my dear Will,” Hannibal says, moving to stand directly near the bars at the front of the cage, “It's up to you to determine whether you're losing yourself, or shedding an unnecessary part of yourself to become something greater. It’s up to you to remember who you are. Who you’ve always been.”_
> 
> _I'm about to respond, confused, as I tend to be when I talk with Hannibal, when I hear Jack barking out, “Will!”_
> 
> _I turn to see Crawford standing just at the end of the walkway, eyes narrowed as he walks closer, “Will, you should step away.”_
> 
> _It's only then that I realize how close I've gotten to the cage and take a determined step back. Jack nods his approval, “We still can't say for sure that Lecter won't attack. It's best to remember to stay behind the line. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s bitten someone’s face.”_
> 
> _“That's very rude of you to say, Jack,” Hannibal tells him, eyes calm, but I can see the anger bubbling beneath the surface, and not just at the previous comment, even if I do know he's just spoken what would be a death sentence if he could get free. Rudeness was Hannibal’s pet peeve. That was the only thing he used when choosing victims. He’s admitted to having a Rolodex of potentials he would choose from. All having slighted him somehow. But there’s also something more to this situation. Hannibal has always held a sort of contempt for Jack that doesn’t quite extend to anyone else. Sure, he has contempt for Frederick, but that makes sense. Jack, though. I don't even know how well they know each other for him to be so angry at the man, to hold him to such a different standard than the rest of us. Then again, he also holds me in a different esteem, higher, than the others._
> 
> _“It's the truth, Lecter,” Jack tells him, interrupting my internal musings, “You've tried to attack Frederick several times since your arrival.”_
> 
> _“None recently, and always in the name of retribution, Jack,” Hannibal allows, following it up with, “If Frederick didn't want to be subject to my anger, then he should stay away.”_
> 
> _“Or we could subdue you,” Jack provides as an alternative, still glaring at Hannibal. He then turns back to me, “We think it's time to continue with the project. You've had weeks to develop a baseline on his personality profile, so you'll have what you need to work from.”_
> 
> _I can feel Hannibal’s eyes on me as I hesitantly nod, “Alright.”_
> 
> _“Let's go then,” Jack says, hand reaching out, as if herding me away, “We’ll begin the process with Lecter first thing tomorrow. It will be a few days before he’ll be ready for the formula. It would be best if you stayed away during that time, Will. We don't want him to create any associations before you're both ready for that phase.”_
> 
> _I turn back to Hannibal and meet his eyes. I can see how he's curious about what’s going on. About Jack dragging me away. I’ll admit that I am as well. He’s treating me like a child when I’m only doing what I’ve been tasked to do. I’ve been a little more open to it, sure, but I’m still following directives handed down to me. I know I can’t just let Jack drag me away without somehow reassuring Hannibal. I don’t quite know why I’m so concerned, but I can’t just let this be the last of our conversations, and I need to show him that. To show him that I've genuinely enjoyed our conversations. That he's probably been the best friend I've ever had. That he’s so familiar, and puts me at peace like I’ve never felt before. If that isn't telling of my life, then I don't know what is. His eyes soften when I meet them and he tilts his head in acknowledgment of everything I just let him see. He looks more relieved than I feel as I let out a relieved sigh, not sure why it matters so much. I turn and walk ahead of Jack, the image fading as the pendulum swings._

He blinks, only to be hit with another memory.

> _I'm standing on the walkway to the Terran Gallery. I can hear Hannibal moving around in his cage and I walk toward him. The noises become more agitated as I get closer. I'm close enough now that I can see the cage, and the vague outline of his body, “Hannibal?”_
> 
> _He stills, spinning around suddenly to face me. His face is gaunt, far more so now than the last time I had seen him a week ago. Jack ordered me to stay away, and as much as I wanted to, I couldn't come any sooner. I could only come today because everyone else was preoccupied with getting the Wendigo formula ready. I'd stopped speaking with any of them socially, only talking at meetings and when necessary. I know they've seen me as withdrawn, but there's nothing they can do. Today, they were all gone when I left my room. I went to find them, but they were all focused on making sure the formula was right, and that they had a cure._
> 
> _I focus back on Hannibal, who is staring at me like a starving man. He licks his lips, which are dry and cracked, “Will. You've come back.”_
> 
> _I walk closer, wanting to reach out. In the time we've been having our conversations, as we call them, we've gotten closer than I ever thought, and probably more so than anyone else would like. As I've come to consider him a friend, I'm pleased to discover that he had at least missed me in our forced time apart. Then again, it could be the pleasure of the company of anyone not using him as a lab rat. I walk as close to the bars as I ever had before, “Of course I came back. Did you think I wouldn't?”_
> 
> _“They told me you wouldn’t,” he says, leaning against the front of the cage, weary, “but I am so pleased that you have. Shall we continue our conversations? Or are you here to test me? I’ve been having trouble remembering a great many things of late, so I’m not sure I’ll be up to much testing.”_
> 
> _“No,” I deny, and I can feel the disgust show on my face, “I've only ever been here for our conversations, and that’s still the case. I’m here for you.”_
> 
> _“Ah, but that's your job, isn't it?” Hannibal asks with a sneer._
> 
> _“It may have been what Jack considered my job, and maybe why I came the first time, but every time after that, and even beyond the first five minutes, was because I enjoyed talking with you, Hannibal,” I tell him, a small smile on my face, “Jack was actually pretty angry with me for our talks. He wanted me to ask more things about why you did what you did, how you felt about it, if you want to do it again. Instead, we talked about art, and your life outside of the Chesapeake Ripper. He never wanted me to give you information about myself, but I can't just take.”_
> 
> _Hannibal is staring into me, weighing the truth of my words. I'm sure he catches my lapse. We had discussed his crimes, but that wasn't something I was going to tell Jack. That wasn't what he told me I was here for, even if I'm sure he meant it at least as a secondary means of data collection. Hannibal’s lips quirk up at the corner, into the tiniest of smiles, as he accepts my words as truth, “Thank you, Will. You have never treated me as less than a person. I have missed you so very much, my dear Will.”_
> 
> _“And I never will,” I promise him, not responding to the last part, “I don't care why you're here or what brought you here, but you are a person, and part of why I'm here is to determine the validity of this project.”_
> 
> _I step closer to the cage, glancing around. This area is blocked from the camera, but I'm not sure if there's an audio feed. I've never seen proof of it, but wouldn't discount it. With Frederick and Jack, I think anything is possible when it comes to surveillance. I walk right up to the bars, until I'm pressed against them. Hannibal watches me with interest, desire to come forward himself shining bright in his eyes, “Are you not afraid that I'll attack you, like Jack suggested?”_
> 
> _“No,” I chuckle, “I don't think you'll attack me. In fact, I know you won't attack me.”_
> 
> _He walks up close, until I can feel his breath against my face, “Then tell me, dear Will, what you wish to say.”_
> 
> _I lean close, feeling as he reaches through the bars, his hand cupping the back of my neck to bring me closer still, “Tell me, my Will.”_
> 
> _I can feel his self-proclaimed possession of me, knowing that he does somehow see me as his own, but his own what is the part I haven't quite figured out. He’s always talked as if he knows me, and I think he does. Sometimes he knows me better than I know myself. In this case, though, I consider him my own as well. Somehow, through our conversations, we've taken and given parts of ourselves. I know, intellectually, that it's my empathy, but that doesn't make it mean any less, and it feels like far more than just that. I close my eyes for a moment, looking into his when I open them, I speak softly, “I never believed in this project, Hannibal. It’s…cruel…to do what we’re doing to anyone, no matter what they may have done. To take away who someone is? It’s not right.”_
> 
> _“I know,” he breathes, emotion so strong in his voice, “You have always felt so.”_
> 
> _I nod once, my forehead resting on his through the bars, “I volunteered to be part of the project because I wanted to prove them wrong. I wanted, want, to prove that this is the wrong thing to do. We can't just erase someone’s mind and expect to be able to imprint what we want and train them to do what we want. To be who we want.”_
> 
> _Hannibal smiles at me, a hand gently touching my cheek, so soft I almost can’t feel it, “Dearest Will, I knew you wouldn't be lost to me forever.”_
> 
> _I can feel my face twist in confusion, but the pendulum swings, taking me away before I can find out more._

Will stumbles down the walkway, away from the cages in the Terran Gallery, nearly falling up the steps as he makes his way back to the exit to the west. When he’s back in the Gallery Junction, he falls to his knees, overcome by another memory.

> _I’m walking out of the Gallery, closing the doors behind me. I turn around and Jack is standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his chest, brow furrowed deep with the look of disapproval and anger on his face. When he speaks, his tone is even and calm, but I can hear the underlying anger to his words, “Just what the hell do you think you're doing, Graham?”_
> 
> _“What do you mean?” I ask, even though I get the feeling that I know exactly what he's talking about._
> 
> _“You got close to him! You went straight up to the bars!” Jack rants, his arms waving angrily, “Why the hell would you do that?”_
> 
> _I'm still lost after what Hannibal said, but I just nod, “I know, I'm sorry, Jack. It won't happen again.”_
> 
> _“You're damn right it won't,” he paces, “I want someone with you for all future meetings, Will.”_
> 
> _“That would skew the results of the formula,” I point out reasonably. It would._
> 
> _He stares at me and I shrug, “Jack, we've been alone for all of our baseline meetings, why would you think having someone else present would create the same environment? Don't be stupid, Jack. This is why you had me brought in, remember? I know Alana pushed me to get more involved. I know you wanted me to volunteer from the start. I know that's what you want from me. Why can't you just say it?”_
> 
> _Jack sighs, “Will…it's not that simple.”_
> 
> _“Then tell me the truth,” I demand, “I know you haven't been, so why not start now?”_
> 
> _“Will,” Jack begins, “I can't.”_
> 
> _“Then you need to leave this up to me,” I tell him, letting him hear and see how angry I am, “I know what I'm doing, Jack. You can't throw someone else in there after my baseline readings have been made with just the two of us. You've already given him the formula, so it's too late now to do it differently. We just have to move forward.”_
> 
> _Jack tries to meet my eyes, but I refuse to meet his. He shakes his head and turns away, “Fine, Will, but you better get us results.”_
> 
> _“I will,” I promise. He doesn't have to know that the results will probably be negative. I may even die, from what I've seen of the animal testing, but it needs to happen to prove it to the Bureau._
> 
> _The pendulum swings as Jack walks away, toward the lab._


	12. Deja Vu Is TheSensation Of Having Already Experienced An Event Or Situation

That's exactly what Will experiences when he blinks open his eyes. The feeling of the cold, hard tile underneath his cheek bringing him back to his earlier awakening, except, this time, he knows…at least some things. He knows who he is, or at least the basic idea of himself, and that's certainly a step up from before. He knows what this place is for, the others who had been here. And, most importantly for him, he knows Hannibal, and that he needs to find more information about the project. He needs to know what happened to Hannibal. He closes his eyes again, just for a moment. He remembers the memory, the vision, but then he must have passed out.

“You’ve had a seizure, Will.”

His eyes shoot open, trying to find the source of the lilting accent. Trying to find Hannibal. But no one is there. He scrambles up from the floor and frantically looks around. Nothing. He shakes his head, trying to clear away his confusion. Hadn't he just heard…?

“Will.”

His head turns around quickly. He was sure he heard it. From the hall to the north, leading to the lab. He walks slowly up the hall. It can't be in his head. It sounds just like his memories. He finds he can't help but be drawn toward the other man’s voice. There's something about it. Something so familiar. Yeah, he thinks, of course it's familiar, you've been having visions that feature it pretty prominently. Even so, in his visions he also gets the feeling of familiarity with Hannibal. It’s always unsettling, and he never knows what to do about it. He always ends up embracing the feeling, enjoying the pleasure he gets from it. He walks into the Lab, hoping Hannibal will be there. He looks around again.

“Wiilll.”

He turns, his head snapping around toward the door to the east, leading into the medical room. Still nothing. The only thing he notices is the table in the center of the room. He lets the pendulum swing. The vague thought that maybe Hannibal will come to him while he’s vulnerable passes through his mind as it goes dark.

> _I’m lying on the cold table, staring up at the ceiling. I can hear movement around me. I turn my head to the side and see Frederick standing beside the table. I can see the almost manic glee in his eyes. I know he can’t wait to see the results of the formula. Chilton is nothing if not dedicated to his causes, and the Ripper Project is his number one cause right now. It doesn’t seem to matter to him what we need to do to accomplish his goals. The ends justifies the means to him. That seems to be the recurring theme among the team. I can’t help but feel differently. Which is how I find myself in this position. I’m too stubborn and have found myself needing convincing for the project. Especially after my conversations with Hannibal. I’ve gotten to know the man and can’t help but find the effects of the Ripper formula to be cruel and unusual. Then to make a puppet of the leftover shell of this man…it’s just not right. It can’t be right._
> 
> _Jack walks over to my other side, Alana behind him, whispering to him, but he just shrugs her off. He walks right up to me and leans down, “Don’t be afraid, Will. We have everything under control. I’ve already walked you through how this is going to go. This isn’t our first time doing this, Will. You’re in good hands here. We know what we’re doing.”_
> 
> _Alana nods in a way she probably thinks is reassuring, but, really, it’s not. She looks more like she’s saying goodbye. She looks so…fearful. It would be better if she would just move away, but she stays close because she needs to do it for herself. That’s kind of been the way our relationship has been from the start. Frederick turns around to pick up a syringe, handing it to Jack. Jack holds a vial marked “FORMULA: WNDG1327” and fills the syringe before continuing, “We know there are risks involved here, and we know there’s the potential for greater risk with you, Will, but we’ve minimized the danger, so there’s only a slight percentage of risk. You’re doing a great thing here, Will. Just think of all the good we can do. This is only the beginning.”_
> 
> _Frederick seems to crowd even closer, and I can feel his anticipation. He’s practically vibrating with it. Jack reaches for my arm, pulling it out to prep it for the injection. Alana turns away, and I can’t help but let out a relieved sigh.. My eyes catch on Frederick’s, and it’s almost horrifying, but I can’t bring myself to look away. This man, these men, hold my life in their hands. They have control here, and I never really stood a chance against their wants, this just proves that. I can see Frederick’s ambition. I can almost feel it myself and it’s sickening. I close my eyes and turn away, trying to shut everyone out, but one voice stays._
> 
> _“Will, you must remain calm. I can’t help you if you don’t let me. Relax. There’s nothing to be done now,” I let the ghost of Hannibal’s voice flow through my mind, relaxing me, as I feel the needle sinking into my arm. There’s a brief sting before the pendulum swings behind my closed eyes._

Will comes back to himself, and finds that he’s lying on the table. He jerks, nearly falling to the floor. It frightens him that he’s somehow managed to do climb onto the table without realizing. Has this been happening the whole time? Is this the sort of “mental deterioration” Jack had been referring to before? He slides off the table and hurries out, not looking at anything else on his way.

Back in Lab III, he looks around, now that he has a better idea of what to look for. What he needs to find is more of the Wendigo and Ripper formulas. What he needs to do is make the cure. What he needs to do is cure himself. What he _wants_ to do is find Hannibal. He lets himself be pulled into another memory at that thought, sighing almost in pleasure as the pendulum swings.

> _“Alright,” I hear Jack say from behind me, “We’re going to test some of your reflexes. I’ll test yours, Will, and Frederick will test Lecter. We’ll be giving some brief commands to see how the formula is working. Frederick will also be questioning Hannibal, to see what he’s retained to determine how we proceed.”_
> 
> _I look around. I’m still in Lab III, sitting on the edge of the table. Hannibal is at the other end of the table, also perched on the edge. Jack is walking toward me with some tools in hand. I look around again, as if I’m not purposefully trying to catch Hannibal’s attention. But I know that’s exactly what I want. I’m disappointed when he doesn’t meet my gaze the next several times I look up. I wonder if it’s the effects of the Ripper formula. It makes my chest ache at that thought. Had the drug made him forget me? What was going on?_
> 
> _I see how Frederick is peacocking though and consider that maybe he’s just trying not to gain Frederick’s attention any more than he already has. I know I wouldn’t want him to pay closer attention to me than absolutely necessary. I let Jack poke and prod at me for another several minutes, losing myself in my mind, letting myself enjoy the cool stream of the river back home. Maybe Hannibal is doing something similar. I know I’m not the first one to use my mind in such a way. Not only did these routine examinations test reflexes, but they also were constantly taking blood samples, to see if the formula was somehow altering or affecting our blood. I’m no longer on the research team, so I don’t get informed on what the results are, though maybe I could ask Jack and he might still tell me. Maybe he’d tell me about Hannibal, I know he won’t tell me my own results._
> 
> _“Will?”_
> 
> _I open my eyes, not realizing I had closed them, to find Jack staring at me, a look almost like concern in his eyes, “Are you doing alright, Will?”_
> 
> _“I’m fine, Jack,” I tell him, not sure why he’s looking at me the way he is._
> 
> _“I’ve been asking you questions for the past twenty minutes, Will,” he explains, his brow furrowing, “You were answering, but then I realized you weren’t really paying attention. It was like you were on autopilot. Where were you?”_
> 
> _I open my mouth to say something, but I’m not quite sure I should. The stream is my own private thing. He probably thinks it’s an effect of the formula, but I’ve always had this as a coping mechanism. It’s my own private stream, and I can block out the rest of the world whenever I want. He refuses to move or say anything else, so I clear my throat and speak, “I was just fishing.”_
> 
> _If anything, he looks even more confused than before, so I explain, “I was imagining I was back home, fishing in the river behind my house.”_
> 
> _“You were…fishing?” Jack asks, scribbling some notes in his composition book._
> 
> _I try to stop him, “Jack, no, it’s nothing to do with the formula. This isn’t new, I’ve been doing this for years. It helps me relax, or if I get bored, it gives me something to do and I can just tune out the rest of the world. It helps me think.”_
> 
> _Jack’s expression doesn’t change, and he doesn’t stop writing in his book, “Will, we have to keep track of everything. The timing might have something to do with the formula. You were still answering, Will. That means the formula is working.”_
> 
> _“Can’t you ask Hannibal? He’ll tell you,” I say, waving an arm toward him, only now realizing that he seems to be zoned out. Frederick is smirking, having heard the entire conversation, “That’s exactly why it’s worth noting, Will. See? Hannibal is in such a similar state that we have to believe it’s related to the formulas.”_
> 
> _I look between Frederick and Jack before keeping my eyes on Jack, “Are you sure? I mean, I’ve done this before the formula.”_
> 
> _“Did you still answer every question put to you, or did you tune everything out?” Jack asks, already seeming to know the answer._
> 
> _“I’m completely focused on the stream, though,” I insist, “How can I answer questions while I’m there?”_
> 
> _Frederick and Jack exchange looks before Frederick shrugs and goes back to Hannibal, whose eyes are now open and paying attention to the scene in front of him. I meet his eyes and find I can’t look away, even when Jack speaks again, “I gave you the order earlier to answer all questions, Will. The formula is designed to ensure you follow directives. How do you imagine it works with those who have been given the Ripper formula as well? As you’ve said before, they’re empty shells that we fill with what we want or need from them. That means that even when you aren’t fully conscious, you can still continue with the mission. But let’s not have you dozing off every time we test your reflexes, hmm? I think that’s enough for now. We’ve gotten enough data. Later, we can compare reactions to the same order for both of you to see if one reacts differently. That’ll be before the next injection of the formula.”_
> 
> _I can’t even nod, I’m so caught in staring into Hannibal. His focus is completely on me, but his gaze is dimmed. He’s not how he was. The Ripper formula is affecting. More than I can see, I know. It worries me to see the lack of response. I’m not sure what I want, but I know I want something from him. His attention is soon monopolized by Frederick and our connection is lost. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Jack glancing between us and writing quickly in his book. I let the pendulum swing when Hannibal’s attention is no longer on me._

Will almost didn't want to open his eyes. He considered the stream he had seen in the memory, how detailed it was. There were so many things he hasn't really taken the time to consider, and one of those is the empathy he has, according to the memories. He hasn't gotten the chance to experience it until he found himself and started seeing things from his point of view in his memories. What exactly does it mean for him? They said that he can understand anyone’s point of view, but he’s still not sure what that means. Sure, great, he can understand anything, but he’s found himself _feeling_ another person’s feelings in his memories. When he smiled at Hannibal when Jack was dragging him away, he had known immediately that Hannibal understood everything he was trying to convey. He _knew_ things the others were feeling because he could _feel_ it himself. Is that why Alana had been so concerned about how close he was getting? Was she afraid that he would feel from Hannibal? Of what he could grow to feel _for_ Hannibal? That he would feel what Hannibal was feeling and start to reflect it? Maybe it was true, maybe that _had_ happened. He won’t know for sure until he finishes piecing things together and finds out what happened to everyone.

He walks over to the cabinet, the one that Jack had gone in before after killing the mouse. He remembers the locked box at the bottom of the cabinet. It’s still there, just as he left it. He takes it out and sets it on the table, looking around the mess of papers and things covering the rest of it. There has to be a key. Jack would know where it is. He looks through the notebooks, finding the one that held Jack’s notes on that particular experiment.

> _**After initial injection of wendigo formula, test subjects experience burst of enhanced strength and senses. Subjects who undergo both formulas exhibit ideal behavior. Subjects respond to all commands. Those only injected with Wendigo respond slower and less often. Test subjects experience increased stress and body heat increases incrementally. Subjects begin initial self-isolation within days of injection. ~~Subjects inhibitions lower.~~ Subjects experience ~~prolonged~~ brief moments of dissociation. Must complete further testing to determine regularity of side effects.** _

He can’t believe some of the notes. The notebook isn't dated, but he's started reading from the beginning and it's nearly filled. There are a couple of things that had been scratched out, but he can still read them. Lower inhibitions? _Prolonged_ moments of dissociation? Was he trying to make the formula seem less harmful? Had he not turned these over to the Bureau? He continues reading on the next page.

> _**Latest group of subjects reacted negatively to Wendigo formula. We may need to retest formula for genetic markers. Previous formula tested on mice. Current formula tested on birds. Some negative effects are ~~higher levels of self-harm~~ ~~high levels of violence toward others~~ ~~high levels of violence~~ riskier behavior, intense dilation of pupils, ~~extreme~~ high mental stress, and ~~comatose~~ ~~dissociative state~~** _

Jack’s notes on that page just stop. He had scratched out a lot on that page too. Will thinks that he couldn't figure out the best way to phrase it in a less…horrendous way. He flips through more that talk about the effects of the formula on different subjects. There were tests done on all sorts of animals, mammals, reptiles, amphibians, birds. Every type of animal had been experimented on before the formula had even been recognized as adapting to different properties within the subject. Some variations of the formula only worked on reptiles because of some chemical or other. Some required a greater percentage of the Ripper formula. Others required less. He wasn't sure what made some react certain ways, but Jack's journals might say. He decided to read on.

> _**We have determined an appropriate ratio of Ripper to Wendigo formulas for several of the test species. Now that we have developed a stable formula, we will begin testing in earnest. Several questions must be answered before the feasibility of the program can be determined. Full consideration of a human trial is still a long way off, but I wish it were closer to becoming a reality.** _

Will reads on, wondering if Jack had personal reasons for wanting to have the drugs ready earlier, or if it was just his excitement at the project. Unfortunately, the next several pages only outline which animals require what quantities of Ripper in the Wendigo formula. He notices that there are several more trials before things are completely in hand. It seems that the different quantities most often cause quicker mental deterioration. In one such instance, Jack expands on what exactly that means.

> _**The mental deterioration now is significantly less than before. The specimens are more cognitively aware, no longer so quick to take to ~~self-harm~~ ~~cannibalism~~ violence. Time between initial injection and deterioration still not at the levels we need to begin human trials. Will we ever figure out what's going wrong?** _

That was really the first self-doubt that Will has found from Jack. Jack has always seemed so sure, like he always knew the answer, but his journal shows otherwise. He's now determined to figure out how to get the formula to function as he wants, but he actually has expressed doubts. Unfortunately, the doubts aren't on whether the project is actually a good idea to begin with, but doubts at the very least show he's actually more human than he was before. Will reads on. Time passes, and he can’t keep track of the hours he spends poring over Jack’s journal. He’s come across vague references of how he needs the formula to be ready enough for a human trial. Some emotion leaks through in his writing. He sits up straight when he comes across something that might finally tell him why Jack is so eager for the trial.

> _**As soon as we have a formula strong enough, stable enough, to begin human trials, maybe I can finally fix him. It has been pointed out that I am the one who broke him to begin with, so I need to fix him. That has been my motivation throughout this project.** _

Him who? Will wonders.

> _**I know he will never willingly participate. He’s always hated the idea of taking someone’s options away, taking away their choice. Their design, is what he would call it.** _

It sounds so familiar to him. Their design. His design.

> _**I just never understood how he could have gone so far without me realizing he was lost. Molly insists it’s my fault, and I can’t help but agree. If i hadn’t pulled him back in, if I hadn’t made him look, he would still be happily in retirement from the FBI, living with Molly and Wally, fixing damn boat motors. God, it must’ve been like the Cleavers. He looked healthier when I came for him. Everything had been better for him outside the FBI. But I couldn’t ask anyone else. We NEEDED him. No one else could do what he could. But then he got sucked into the whole thing. Lecter got to him. After all the years he’d tried, I was the one who ended up pushing him closer to Lecter. I gave in. Gave him what he’d been wanting the whole time. Practically on a silver platter.** _

Lecter. As in Hannibal Lecter? His head started to throb, but he couldn’t stop reading.

> _**It was like he had been waiting. Suffering through Chilton’s version of care while he waited for his protégé to join him. He knew just the way to get to him. Send the killer after his family. He won’t want to be with them anymore because that means they’re in danger. But it wasn’t just that. He had been baiting hooks over the years, knowing that one day, he would get a bite. He KNEW that the day would come where we would need him, and he was just waiting. Because then, he would have his leverage, and he knew that we would do anything, including giving him exactly what he wanted.** _

Who? Will wonders, even as the whole things sounds incredibly familiar. He reads on, feeling jittery at finding out who Jack was referring to.

> _**We, I, pushed him to the breaking point. Pushed him toward the one man he should never have been close to. After the Red Dragon, he was gone. He had become exactly what Hannibal wanted all along. We hunted him, them, following their breadcrumbs. The breadcrumbs were bodies, and there were far more of them than ever before. I still don't know how we ended up catching them in the end, but we did.** _

The page was crumpled a little, the pen had pressed harder here, as if Jack had been angry.

> _**That's a lie. We only caught them because of the connection they had to each other. Hannibal refused to leave him, but his injuries from the Dragon were far from healed. He had to go to the emergency room by the time they hit the west coast. The injury to his cheekbone had become infected, as had several others. Even as a doctor, there was only so much Hannibal could do without the supplies and help from a hospital. There was a terrible scar, still is. Hannibal stayed, knowing that as soon as they checked in, we would know where to find them and would come for them. Why? He still refuses to answer more than to say that they are friends and he would never leave him behind.** _

The scar. His hand immediately goes to touch the scar on his face. Jack is talking about him? His head aches as he tries to wrap his head around this revelation. He knows he should stop if he wants the pain to go away. Instead, he continues reading, ignoring the pain in favor of discovering the truth.

> **_When we first captured Hannibal those years ago, after Italy, he congratulated me on catching the Chesapeake Ripper. Even then, I knew I didn't catch him. He surrendered. When we asked him why, he stared through the glass, speaking to Will as he told him why. He told Will that he surrendered so Will would always know EXACTLY where he is. His precise words were: That way, you can always find me. He has always known there was something in Will, could see it, the darkness that even I saw, but discounted as a side effect of his empathy, of his work with the FBI. Hannibal saw that darkness not as a side effect, but as a rising tide that had been kept back for too long. When we caught them in that hospital, Hannibal even then refused to leave Will’s side. He refused to let us take him without his…not even protégé, something much stronger. There was a love between them that we never saw, never understood. It looked, on the surface, like the love I felt, and still feel, for Bella. I don't understand it. When he was well again, Will told us nothing. Well, that's not true. He admitted to plenty, but he told us nothing of their relationship beyond what Hannibal had already said: that they are friends. We asked if he had been pushed to do things he didn't want to. We asked if he was forced to kill those men and women. He denied it, told us that it was his choice. He told us that he chose those men and women. It wasn't Hannibal’s design, nor was it his. It was THEIR design._ **

He stopped reading, realizing that his breathing was quick. Will. Jack had definitely been talking about _him_. Jack had been impatient for human trials because he wanted _Will_ to be a subject. That certainly changes things.


	13. Realigning Your Thoughts To A New Reality Takes Some Time

Will is quickly figuring that out. His head is throbbing, filled with Jack’s thoughts. His knowledge. His ideas of who he is are quickly changing. He is no longer the awkward FBI teacher who was sent to play devil’s advocate on this project. No, he was something entirely different. He had thought Hannibal was the test subject, but the whole time it was himself. Well, him _and_ Hannibal. If he truly is Will Graham, which he’s as close to certain as he can be, and if Will Graham is now a man who was previously an FBI profiler turned murderer, and if he and Hannibal had that _connection_ Jack referred to, then had they brought Hannibal in to test him? Had they brought him in to see if the formula was working, and would continue to work through periods of stress and seeing people from his past? He didn't remember _anything_ before this facility. Everything he was seeing, had taken place here. He wanted to see his past. His _true_ past. For now, he would settle for reading Jack’s accounting of his past.

> _**I’ll always feel guilty for the part I played in his fall, but I find myself unable to look at him. I have to send Miriam to interview him. I can't bring myself to see him as he is now. Hannibal Lecter and I have jointly ruined him. He can never be as he was. At least not until we finish the formula and are given the go ahead for human trials. It all could be solved with the Wendigo and Ripper formulas.** _

That was it. That was all Jack had written on the topic of Will. After that, it was back to the formula. There were even more trials now, though. His consideration of the past must have given him a burst of motivation. He flipped through the next several pages, some of which was just broken down into amounts of formula for minimal mental deterioration. Then he reached the section he had seen earlier, the scene with Jack and the mice.

> _**Further notes on Wendigo formula: Specimens receive brief increase in physical strength after initial injection of Wendigo formula. Period lasts only several minutes, but is worth noting. Will this differ in human test subjects? Negative effects of note: After a short period of time, the formula causes uneven dilation in the eyes, creating a distortion in vision. Test subject experienced intense reaction to fellow cage mates. Reacted negatively to stimuli. New subject needed. I believe we are closer to reaching a breakthrough for human trials. Soon. Soon we will be able to bring in a human subject. Soon, I will be able to fix him.** _

That was the last entry in this notebook. Will sets it to the side, giving his mind time to process. Ignoring the headache in favor of trying to piece together what he now knows of who he was from Jack’s notes. Though, that only gives him _Jack’s_ point of view. He doesn't know his own yet. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine the instance of Hannibal’s surrender, as Jack calls it. He tries to _see_ it. He forces the pendulum to swing.

> _Everything is hazy. Everything is in black and white. Sound is dim. I can't really see much for the first several moments. When I can, it’s almost like I'm underwater. I can see Jack standing by a black car, Hannibal on his knees, hands behind his head, but eyes on me. I can see mouths moving, but I can't hear what they're saying. Suddenly, everything pulls away, the pendulum swinging as the pain comes._

He gasps when he opens his eyes, immediately shutting them again, hands clutching his head. The pain shooting through his skull, blinding him. He stays huddled down, now curled into the fetal position on the floor. As the pain passes, he slowly brings his hands away, pushing into a sitting position, not yet opening his eyes. Finally, he feels most of the pain ebb and brings himself to crack an eye. He's still in the lab, but on the floor. He doesn't feel like he's done anything while he's been out, but that's not to say that nothing happened. He wants to search through Jack’s journals, wants to find more information about himself, about Hannibal, about the trial. The only problem is that he doesn't know where to start. The one he finished was bogged down in figures about the formula, with few thoughts about him and Hannibal interspersed throughout. It would be like trying to find a needle in a hay stack. Maybe he should concentrate on trying to find more information throughout the rest of the facility, to try to piece things together himself. He drags himself up from the floor, using the table to hold himself up when he feels like his knees might not hold him on their own, waiting for the wave of weakness to pass. Once it does, he slowly inches his way, holding onto first the table, then the wall, through the rest of the lab.

Lab II doesn’t immediately bring any insights. Will looks around, hoping to see a journal or anything that maybe he can find more information in. He’ll have to check Jack’s room again. He doesn’t recall seeing one, but maybe he hadn’t looked hard enough. Maybe he keeps a personal one that will have more information on him and Hannibal Lecter. He shakes his head, trying to get back on track, but not knowing anymore what that track is or where it’s going. He was planning on finding the cure, to cure himself. What would that mean now, though? Not knowing if the formulas did what he had been told they do, or whether or not he had been injected with Wendigo versus Ripper. They could have injected him with anything. He can feel himself starting to panic, not knowing what happened. He stares hard at nothing in the middle of the room, forcing a vision. The pendulum swings just as pain bursts through his head.

> _“Jack, I can see why you would want to bring me into this, but are you sure you’ve thought this through?”_
> 
> _The pain is gone, but I know I’ll be feeling it when I come to. In the meantime, I focus on Chilton’s voice. He and Jack stand off to the side of the lab. It looks like Jack is showing the other man what he’s working on._
> 
> _“Of course I have, Frederick,” Jack tells him, and I can hear the strain in his voice, “It’s all I’ve been able to think about since I was put onto this project. I have to fix him, Frederick.”_
> 
> _Chilton sighs, “As much as I loathe to admit this, it’s not your fault, Jack. Will Graham has always had the capacity for murder, it’s just Hannibal Lecter who released him. You had nothing to do with it.”_
> 
> _“I practically gift wrapped him for Lecter,” Jack nearly yells, then calms down and continues, “Can’t you see that? I was the one who insisted he keep looking. I ordered him to jump into the minds of killers, Frederick. If I’m not to blame for leading him there and letting him get lost, then I don’t see how we can blame Hannibal for any of it either.”_
> 
> _“That’s entirely different. Hannibal didn’t just hand him a knife and tell him to do whatever comes to him. Hannibal played around in his mind, Jack. Hannibal was the one who let him go untreated for his encephalitis. Encephalitis, when untreated for so long, can have extreme consequences,” Chilton points out, “Your blame in this is maybe negligence.”_
> 
> _“Isn’t that enough?” Jack asks, his voice pleading, as if he wants to take the full blame, as if he wants to be burdened, “Just…just let me fix him. Help me fix him.”_
> 
> _Frederick stares at Jack for several long minutes before responding, “Alright. But, Jack, you know how this has to be done. We’re going to have to really test him. There’s going to have to be an elaborate set up to test him. He’s going to have to face Hannibal at some point. We won’t know for sure that the formula will truly hold up unless he’s confronted with his past.”_
> 
> _Jack nods, “I know. I have a plan for that.”_
> 
> _“Tell me.”_
> 
> _The pendulum swings as Jack begins to tell Chilton about his plan._

When he comes back, he’s lying on the floor, which isn’t anything new, but what _is_ new is the puddle of blood in front of his face. He reaches up and runs a hand under his nose. It comes away bloody and he just wipes the rest off on his sleeve as he sits up. The timing was terrible. He wanted to hear what Jack’s plan was. It’s like his brain has just been slowly feeding him the information he knows, but only when he rediscovers it. He hasn’t rediscovered, or discovered at all, what Jack had planned, so he was prevented from seeing the rest of the scene play out. What would happen if he tried to focus again? Should he push it? Would it work? Would it just make his current aches worse? If he doesn’t try, he’ll never know. He closes his eyes and forces the pendulum to swing.

> _I’m in the lab still but instead of Jack and Frederick, it’s just Jack and Hannibal. He’s testing Hannibal’s reflexes, making notes in a notebook, asking questions and jotting down the answers. He glances at the man, the disgust in his face obvious, and asks another question, “Hannibal, why did you go after Will like you did?”_
> 
> _Hannibal’s head tilts, but there’s no active awareness in his eyes. I wonder if he’s in his own version of the stream. He answers anyway, “When you first brought Will to me, I found him to be beautiful, in every possible way. That darkness that was just sitting under his skin, waiting to be released, I knew it would be spectacular. I wanted him from the first.”_
> 
> _Jack’s mouth twisted even more in displeasure, “For what? A hunting buddy? A toy to play with?”_
> 
> _“He was always meant to be mine,” Hannibal says in that low drone that tells me he’s still not aware of what’s going on, “He was everything I wanted. He would see me and know me. I had been lonely. I had grown weary of the person suit I was forced to put on every day. Having someone who could see me and possibly still want me? It was too much to pass up.”_
> 
> _Jack still wasn’t quite understanding what he was meaning, but I did. The pendulum swings again, more aggressively now, and everything fades._

He’s still in the sitting position he had been in when he forced himself back, and luckily there was no new blood. Hannibal had wanted a partner. Not just a hunting partner, but someone he could include in every aspect of his life. He had wanted a spouse.

“‘Murder husbands’,” Hannibal’s voice came to him, “Freddie Lounds coined the phrase and it does seem oddly fitting, does it not?”

Will looks around, his head swimming with the suddenness of it, but there’s still no Hannibal. He doesn’t know how he’s hearing him, but he is. Maybe he just knew the man well enough to know what he would say. He stands, moving into Lab I to look around for more notebooks. There was one on the table, beside the dissection tray. He walks over and quickly opens the book. This is…the handwriting in this book is different. The writing is beautiful, an almost calligraphic style writing.

> _**My dear Will,** _
> 
> _**I always knew you would find your way back to me. I’m not sure how much you’ve remembered by now, but the formulas should be cancelling out by now. You will soon remember everything. If there are still gaps, then we can easily work through that once we’re together again. I knew you would need time for the drugs to work their way through your system, so I’m waiting for you. For the true you. My Will. I know you have questions. For now, I will answer few. The Ripper and Wendigo formulas, as they have been termed, are not long term solutions. They require regular injections to make sure the subject is still in their hold. I have been able to gain much understanding of the formulas from Alana. She has been coming to see me to make sure the drugs are working appropriately and I have managed to get her to talk more about them. There is, unfortunately for the rest of the team, a way to cancel out the effects of the Ripper formula without the cure they have so deliberately taunted you with. Uncle Jack hadn’t realized that injecting you with it a second time would cancel out the effects of the first. They have been re-establishing their control over you with the Wendigo drug, but when you started questioning more and showing your care for me, Jack decided to give you another dose of the Ripper formula, hoping it would make you forget. It did, yes, but you also started remembering things. You also began to black out more frequently. No matter how many injections of the Wendigo formula they gave you, you would not come back under their control. You, my Will, must find out the rest yourself. I will be waiting for you when you do. You’ll know where to find me.** _ _**~Hannibal** _

Will is immediately thrown into a memory when he’s finished reading the letter.

> _I’m standing to the side of the room. I can see Hannibal, leaning over the table writing in the very same notebook I had just read. He’s still gaunt, but is dressed in some of Frederick’s clothes. Oddly enough, they suit him better than they had the other man. He is wearing a plaid suit in shades of brown with light green threads throughout. He has a smirk on his face as he writes, signing his name with flair when he finishes. He looks around the room after setting the notebook down, grabbing a key that’s in the center of the table, putting it in his pocket before leaving through the southwest door. I start to follow and see him walking into the hall, but everything fades before I can see where he goes, the pendulum swings._

He finds himself standing in the doorway, staring off in the direction Hannibal had gone. The key…could it be the key to the locked door in the north end of the hall? Where would he have taken it? Will steps into the hall and pushes the pendulum.

> _I can see Hannibal walk down the hall, to the atrium and follow. He stops in the middle of the room and tilts his head to the scant light coming in through the ceiling. I walk around the outside of the room and see he’s closed his eyes and has the ghost of a smile on his face. He’s just taking in the sun coming in. I can’t blame him. He’s been locked up in a cage for who knows how long now and, even with the light through the dome in the Gallery, his area of the platform is shaded. He stands there for several minutes before opening his eyes again. His eyes stare right at me._
> 
> _“Hannibal!”_
> 
> _I turn around quickly, realizing he is actually looking past me. He can’t actually see me. He can see Alana, though. She’s rushing into the room from the south hall, surprise clear on her face, but also hesitance and the beginnings of fear. She takes one more step before stopping, looking around, “Is Jack with you? What are you doing out here?”_
> 
> _Hannibal takes a measured step forward, graceful as he stalks forward, “Jack is a little preoccupied at the moment. I wanted a chance to tour the rest of the facility. Maybe you would like to be my tour guide?”_
> 
> _At that point, Alana knows beyond a doubt that everything has gone wrong. She shakes her head, “Where is Jack, Hannibal?”_
> 
> _“He’s outside, waiting for you to join him,” Hannibal tells her simply, the same polite mask on his face that I know he considers part of his “person suit”. He steps forward again, making her take a step back. He tilts his head, as if he’s confused, “Why, Alana, what’s the matter? You’re usually much happier to see me.”_
> 
> _“You’re usually in a cage,” she returns, her mouth twisting when she realizes that there’s no good way for this to end. She glances around the room, trying to find a weapon, anything to use as a weapon, “How did you get out? I thought Jack had sealed the Gallery…”_
> 
> _Hannibal’s mouth twists in satisfaction, “I’m sure he has, but I was out of the room when he did so.”_
> 
> _I can see the bob of Alana’s throat as she swallows hard, “How-”_
> 
> _“Will was kind enough to free me from my prison,” he tells her, truly smiling now, “All of the work you’ve done is wearing thin. He will return to me soon. I’ve already discussed this with Jack. He wasn’t so willing to listen.”_
> 
> _Alana inches back again, but Hannibal matches it with another forward, “What…what did you do to Jack? What did you do to Will? How did you get him to help you? Did you manipulate him with the Wendigo formula? Have you been working on him this whole time? Will is innocent in all of this!”_
> 
> _At that, Hannibal smirks, “You don’t know, do you? Jack never told you.”_
> 
> _She fights hard against her curiosity, but fails, “What do you mean? What do you think Jack hasn’t told me?”_
> 
> _“Dr. Bloom, do you know the real reason behind Jack choosing Will Graham for this project?”_
> 
> _Confusion is clear on her face, and she’s curious enough that she’s stopped trying to slip away, now more interested in what Hannibal has to say than in getting away from him. Even if she does know how little the chances were of actually escaping him. She stares him down, “Will was chosen for his empathy disorder, and his background with you. He consulted on several of your scenes.”_
> 
> _Hannibal’s grin widens, “That he did, but it was a little more than that. Has Jack’s behavior toward him truly given nothing away?”_
> 
> _“He’s seemed a little more attached to Will than I would have expected, more invested,” she admits, “I always thought they may have already known each other, Jack had known you and your work. I thought maybe the two of them met over that.”_
> 
> _“They did, though not quite as cut and dried as you believe,” he tells her, his accent curling around the words, satisfaction obvious when he continues, “Will did consult on my case, but it was long before I was caught.”_
> 
> _“What do you mean?” She demands._
> 
> _“I mean, Dr. Bloom,” he begins, still grinning, “that dear Will worked on my case almost from the beginning. He was a teacher with the FBI and good old Uncle Jack used him for his empathy. He pulled Will out of his classes to consult on the tough cases, the ones he could not solve himself. It was because of one of those that I met him. Jack brought me in to consult on his mental health at the recommendation of a fellow psychiatrist and former protégé of mine, Clarice Starling. She and Will were good friends and she refused to consult and referred Jack to me. I became Will’s unofficial psychiatrist, to help him with the work Jack had him doing.”_
> 
> _Alana’s eyes widened, “What? He introduced the two of you?”_
> 
> _Hannibal chuckles, “He did. Will and I became friends. There was some unpleasantness when his encephalitis became known, and of course I had, at the time, also needed him for my own purposes. He was a fine scapegoat. Though I did set him free in the end.”_
> 
> _“You set Will up for your crimes?” Alana asks, incredulous. I, myself, am focused on Hannibal and the story he’s telling. I can’t help but feel affection for him, but what he’s telling Alana makes me realize that not everything was smooth sailing. Things had been rough. Alana shakes her head, “How did you get Jack to believe Will was the Chesapeake Ripper?”_
> 
> _“Now that’s privileged information, Dr. Bloom,” he teases her, “I will tell you that it took him chasing me to Europe and me saving him from having his face cut off, as well as me spending three years in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane while he went off to get married and raise her child as his own for us to get where we were. Jack brought him back to me, you see. That is why he wanted Will to be his first test subject.”_
> 
> _Alana’s shocked face is the last thing I see before everything fades. The pendulum takes me back._

Will gasps when he comes back. He sinks to the floor at the rush of pain in his head. His hands go to either side of his head, as if he’s trying to hold the pain in by that alone. He curls into the fetal position, making himself as small as possible as he’s completely overcome by the pain.


	14. He Remembers Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the point when I feel like I need to restate: I own absolutely nothing of the Hannibal universe, including the dialogue I have taken directly from the show in this chapter, probably PARTICULARLY that dialogue.

When he can open his eyes, when the pain fades, he remembers everything. He can remember the first time he saw Hannibal Lecter, in Jack’s office.

> _“Tell me then, how many confessions?”_
> 
> _This newcomer is standing at the board, looking over the evidence. I don’t know he’s doing here. Jack says he’s here to consult on the Nichols’ case, but I’m still skeptical. Why is he even here when Jack pulled me away from my class for this exact purpose?_
> 
> _“Twelve dozen last time I checked,” Jack responds, hands steepled as he sits behind his desk, “one of them knew details. Until this morning. Then everyone knew details. Some genius in Duluth PD took a picture of Elise Nichols’ body with their phone and shared it with a few close friends. Freddie Lounds ran it on Tattlecrime.com.”_
> 
> _I scoff, “Tasteless.”_
> 
> _The newcomer moves around and sits in the chair beside me, “Do you have trouble with taste?”_
> 
> _I avoid his seeking eyes, “My thoughts are often not tasty.”_
> 
> _“Nor mine,” he shares, “No effective barriers.”_
> 
> _“I make forts,” I tell him._
> 
> _“Associations come quickly.”_
> 
> _“So do forts,” I try to look at him, and focus on his chin for a few seconds before turning away. It’s not surprising that he notices now._
> 
> _“Not fond of eye contact, are you?” He asks. Of course he would ask._
> 
> _“Eyes are distracting,” I explain, because, for some reason, I feel like I need to explain myself to this man, “You see too much, you don’t see enough. And it’s hard to focus when you’re thinking, ‘those whites are really white’ or ‘they must have hepatitis’, or ‘is that a burst vein?’ So I try to avoid eyes whenever possible.”_
> 
> _He isn’t put off and continues with his observations, “I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind. Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams. No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love.”_
> 
> _I refuse to let him know how right he is. No one has been able to see me so clearly before._
> 
> _“Whose profile are you working on?” I demand, then turn to Jack, “Whose profile is he working on?”_
> 
> _I can’t stand it when people try to get inside my head. I know what it’s like here, and I don’t want anyone else in there. It’s a mess. I glare at Jack, “Please don’t psychoanalyst me. You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go give a lecture. On psychoanalyzing.”_
> 
> _I stalk out of the room, hearing Jack’s voice behind me._

He remembers the first thing he thought about the older man. He remembers thinking that he had to be the most beautiful man he’d ever seen. Then he remembers thinking that the man had cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. He remembers the Hobbs case. Shooting Garrett Jacob Hobbs, Hannibal stepping in to save Abigail when he couldn’t. He remembers the first time he went to see Hannibal, how the man rubber stamped him. He remembers every single appointment after that and how hard the other man worked to gain his trust, to garner his friendship. Then how the man had framed him for murder. Multiple murders. Making him fear he had killed Abigail. Letting him suffer from the encephalitis for so long when he could have helped. Being in Chilton’s care. God. No wonder the man was so smug and insufferable here. He had been under the man’s control before, and now here he was again.

BSHCI had changed him. He remembers talking with Matthew Brown and how the man almost killed Hannibal. Where would he be now if he had succeeded? Possibly still in the hospital. He remembers the murder that set him free. Beverly Katz. The only one who had been willing to look deeper. He remembers returning to his appointments, to getting lost in his own game. He hated how confused he was, how he wasn’t sure which side he was playing toward the end. He hadn’t known where he stood even as he was calling Hannibal to tell him to run. That feeling when Hannibal hadn’t run, but had stayed to fight, it was horror and desperation. He had wanted the older man to run. To get away. He hadn’t wanted to betray him, but hadn’t felt he had a choice. He remembers now the feeling of Hannibal’s knife slicing across his gut. The feeling of helplessness and hopelessness as he had cut Abigail’s throat. Tears flow down his cheeks as he remembers the look on her face. She had been doing what she had to in order to survive by putting herself in Hannibal’s hands, and her end was no different.

> _I walk into Hannibal’s kitchen. There’s blood everywhere, but I see a puddle leaking from beneath the pantry door. I take a step toward it before I realize I’m not alone. I turn around and there’s Abigail. Abigail. I thought she was dead. She turns around and her face is streaked with tears and she looks like she wants to ask for help but doesn't know how. I don’t know what to do. I thought Abigail was dead. There was a time when I thought I’d killed her myself. But here she stands. Alive. In Hannibal’s kitchen._
> 
> _“Abigail?”_
> 
> _She’s shaking and looks like she’s fighting hard against the tears that want to keep flowing. She looks so afraid._
> 
> _“Where is he?”_
> 
> _Her eyes go to the space behind me just as I feel a shift in the room._
> 
> _“Hello, Will.”_
> 
> _I turn around and see Hannibal, covered in blood. He opens his arms and pulls me close, his embrace warm and welcoming, even as I know he knows of my betrayal. Because that’s what it is to him. A betrayal._
> 
> _“You were supposed to leave,” I can’t help the accusation in my tone as my arms go around his back._
> 
> _I can feel his breath on my face when he responds, “We couldn’t leave without you.”_
> 
> _Then I feel an incredible pain in my belly. Abigail screams. I drop my gun, unable to keep my hold on it. My hands automatically go to my stomach. I feel the blood pouring. I can’t help but stumble back against the wall, sliding down to sit on the floor. I look down. The cut is deep, deep enough for my guts to fall out. My hands are the only things keeping them inside. I look back up at Hannibal and he looks heartbroken._
> 
> _“Time has reversed. The teacup I’ve shattered has come together. A place has been made once more in the world for Abigail. A place was made for all of us. Together,” Hannibal explains, gesturing to Abigail and myself, “I wanted to surprise you. And you...you wanted to surprise me.”_
> 
> _I’m going into shock now, the shaking is overwhelming, but I’m trying to stay conscious._
> 
> _“I let you in,” he tells me, the hurt obvious now, “I let you know me. I let you see me.”_
> 
> _“Didn’t I?” I challenge him._
> 
> _“You would deny me my life,” he accuses me._
> 
> _Never. I would never do that. I shake my head, “Not your life.”_
> 
> _He gives me a look that says he doesn’t care for the semantics, “My freedom, then. You’d take that from me. Confine me to a basement cell. Do you believe you could change me the way I’ve changed you?”_
> 
> _I almost scoff, but I don’t have the energy for it, I almost smile though, “I already have.”_
> 
> _Hannibal studies me, considering my words closely before inclining his head, letting me know I’m right, “Fate and circumstance has returned us to the moment the teacup shatters. I forgive you, Will.”_
> 
> _He forgives me. It’s surpassing what a relief that is to me. I didn’t even know I was hoping for it until he said the words. Hannibal moves to stand next to Abigail, behind Abigail. She looks afraid, but resigned to what she realizes is her fate. He brushes her hair back from her neck, “Will you forgive me?”_
> 
> _He looks upset, sad. He looks like he’s about to do something we may both regret. I realize what he’s going to do, “Don’t-”_
> 
> _He cuts across her throat, no hesitation. It’s a clean slice right across the old scar her first father had given her. Everything has come full circle. He had saved her life, so he can take it away. Her face shows the pain, her horror as the blood sprays, splashing across my face, the walls. I can’t stop the scream, “No!”_
> 
> _It’s like the first time. I feel so helpless. This time I have no chance of helping her. I can’t even help myself. She’s clutching at her throat, trying to stop the bleeding. We all know how unsuccessful it’s going to be. The blood continues to pour. Hannibal crouches down in front of me, waving the knife, “You can make it all go away. Put your head back. Close your eyes. Wade into the quiet of the stream.”_
> 
> _I keep my chin down, refusing to give up yet. I can’t. He holds my eyes, offering his brand of mercy before standing again and walking out. I try to drag myself to Abigail, trying to keep my stomach as closed as possible. I have to try to help her. She’s staring into my eyes as I try to hold my own hands against her throat. I pull her to me, but it’s getting harder to see through the tears, my own vision is fading out._

He had almost wished for death after that. Knowing that he had failed at saving Abigail, that he had turned against Hannibal to do what he had been trained to from the beginning, almost made him give up. Knowing that Clarice and Jack survived their encounters helped, but he didn’t have any direction. He had conversations with Abigail in his mind. They spoke of Hannibal, of his feelings, of his deepest wants. How much he had wanted to go away with the other man, but in the end had to stay committed to the plan. He remembers how he had come to the decision of going after Hannibal. Finding him, finding his ancestral home, his birthplace. Chiyoh. The prisoner who had killed Mischa. His design. Chasing Hannibal to Italy. Seeing Hannibal again.

> _I’m sitting beside Hannibal on a bench in an art museum and I look at him and he smiles, “If I saw you every day, forever, Will, I would remember this time.”_
> 
> _I can’t help but answer the smile with my own as I stare at the painting in front of me, “Strange seeing you here in front of me. Been staring at after images of you in places you haven’t been in years.”_
> 
> _“To market, to market, to buy a fat pig. Home again, home again, jiggity-jig.”_
> 
> _I nod, glancing at him, “I wanted to understand you before I laid eyes on you again. I needed it to be clear, what I was seeing.”_
> 
> _“Where does the difference between the past and the future come from?” He asks, and if it wasn’t Hannibal, I might have thought it was rhetorical._
> 
> _“Mine?” I ask, “Before you and after you. Yours? It’s all starting to blur. Mischa. Abigail. Chiyoh.”_
> 
> _Hannibal’s head tilts in question, “How is Chiyoh?”_
> 
> _“She pushed me off a train,” I tell him dryly._
> 
> _He glances over at me and I can see the amusement dancing in his eyes before he turns back to face the painting, “Atta girl.”_
> 
> _I hold back the smile at that and tell him what’s been bothering me, “You and I have begun to blur.”_
> 
> _“Isn’t that how you found me?” He asks._
> 
> _“Every crime of yours feels like one I’m guilty of. Not just Abigail’s murdere, every murder, stretching backward and forward in time,” I stare at the painting, though I can feel his eyes staring into me._
> 
> _“Freeing yourself from me and me freeing myself from you, they’re the same.”_
> 
> _“We’re conjoined,” I admit, turning to look him in the eyes, not surprised by the affection and hesitance there, “I’m curious whether either of us can survive separation.”_
> 
> _“Now is the hardest test,” he doesn’t look away, letting me see everything inside him. The anger, the desire to kill…the hurt. They all war in his eyes as he continues, “Not letting rage and frustration, nor forgiveness, keep you from thinking.”_
> 
> _He stands then, gesturing with a hand toward the exit, “Shall we?”_
> 
> _I follow his lead, standing as well, smoothing down my jacket, “After you.”_

More memories come. Hannibal cutting into his head…hearing him talk while staring at Jack at the other end of the table.

> _“Jack was the first to suggest getting inside your head. Now we both have the opportunity to chew quite literally what we’ve only chewed figuratively.”_

Men from Verger stopping Hannibal only to end up on Mason’s farm, with the man himself wanting Will’s face. He shivers at the horrendous memories flowing through his mind. But Hannibal saved him again. Hannibal was always simultaneously saving him and destroying him. Hannibal’s love for him. Hannibal turning himself in, letting Jack take him away.

> _I see all the cars drive up and step out on the porch. Jack steps out of the car in the front as other agents swarm past me, into my house. I know exactly what he’s there for, “He’s gone, Jack.”_
> 
> _Jack stares at me, disbelieving._
> 
> _“I’m here.”_
> 
> _We both turn to look as Hannibal walks around from the tree line, arms outstretched in surrender, not resigned, but almost welcoming of his fate. Several agents move in, shouting at him. He kneels as they surround him. Jack walks closer to Hannibal. I just watch. We’ve already talked. He knows where I stand. He knows I don’t share his appetite. I’ve told him I won’t miss him. I can’t let him in. I can’t._
> 
> _Hannibal looks up at Jack, almost smug, knowing he’s somehow denying Jack this. His voice near taunting when he speaks, “You finally caught the Chesapeake Ripper, Jack.”_
> 
> _Jack glares at him, “Didn’t catch you, you surrendered.”_
> 
> _Hannibal meets Jacks eyes before sliding them to look at me, “I want you to know exactly where I am. And where you can find me.”_

He remembers thinking about Hannibal over the years. Even as he was dating Molly, marrying Molly, making a life with her and Wally. He couldn’t get Hannibal out of his mind. When Jack came to him about Dolarhyde, he knew he had to go back. He felt like things were unfinished between him and Hannibal, and that was why he ended up consulting with him. He needed closure. Hannibal had the last word when he was arrested. Will had given the illusion of moving on, of moving forward with his own life, but he hadn't really been able to move past it. There were nights when he would dream of Hannibal and the life they could have had together. He would dream of the rivers of blood that would flow if they hunted together. He remembers telling Molly how he would be different when he got back. He hadn’t known quite how right he was then. Bedelia had been right to accuse him of missing him. He had. He never really understood why or how he could miss a man like Hannibal. Especially when he sent Dolarhyde after his family. That had been the straw that broke the back of his misguided attempts at a normal life. He started to give in then. That was the beginning of the end. He had been fighting for too long. It wasn’t until the end, when they were fighting Dolarhyde together that everything really clicked into place for him.

> _I wasn’t expecting to feel what I do when Hannibal is shot. Dolarhyde is holding a gun on me as I set up his tripod. He’s talking to Hannibal as I do it, “I’m going to film your death, Dr. Lecter, as dying, you meld with the strength of the Dragon.”_
> 
> _Hannibal eyes his speculatively, “It’s a glorious and rather discomfiting idea.”_
> 
> _Of course Hannibal would find the idea intriguing. I back away from the camera and tripod, reaching for my gun, at the small of my back._
> 
> _“Watching the film will be wonderful, but not as wonderful as the act itself,” Dolarhyde tells Hannibal before he moves suddenly, his hand flying toward my face. The pain is blinding. It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life. I feel blood fill my mouth, pouring down my face. I try to fight him off, but he pushes the knife deeper. I can feel myself choking on my own blood, but it’s starting to seem so far away. Dolarhyde picks me up and throws me through the broken window. I can feel the impact as I hit the ground. I’m fighting hard to stay conscious as he stalks after me._
> 
> _“It’ll be easy to break your back,” he tells me, coming closer, “Better than killing you. Break your back and twist it, just to be sure. They'll have to roll you to your next investigation.”_
> 
> _I can reach my gun and pull it on him, but he grabs it right away and throws it over the cliff. I have one more weapon. I reach toward the knife in my cheek and yank it free, stabbing it down into his leg. I can feel the blood flowing more freely now that there’s nothing stopping it. Then Dolarhyde does the same, slamming the knife into my collarbone at he pulls my shoulders until my back snaps. The pain flares white hot. I’m waiting for the rest of it, knowing he’s going to do exactly as promised, but he stumbles away. Hannibal has jumped on his back. I can hear them staggering around. I’m gathering my strength before I get up again, but when I hear someone flying into the woodpile, I know I have to move. I pull the knife out and run at Dolarhyde, stabbing him in the back. He roars, turning on me again. Hannibal grabs the hatchet next to the woodpile and slashes into Dolarhydes Achilles' tendon, then his knee. I don’t understand how, but Dolarhyde is still up, punching me in the stomach and side before going down to one knee. I meet Hannibal’s eyes over the fallen man and I know we’ve reached an understanding. He sees our exchange and staggers back to his feet. Hannibal jumps on his back again, distracting him, giving me a chance to sink the knife into his stomach. I pull down on the blade. Blood gushes, but Dolarhyde still fights us. Hannibal bites down on his throat, tearing out a chunk of skin. He roars again, managing to knock Hannibal loose. He finally falls, staring up at the sky as he drops to his knees, then falls over onto his back. I can see the blood bubbling from his throat. He turns, his eyes connecting with mine and I can see the resignation, the…honor he feels at having been defeated by worthy foes. I hear Hannibal stumble to his feet and make my way over to him. We both look back at Dolarhyde and I can’t help but mention, “It really does look black in the moonlight.”_
> 
> _Hannibal walks, staggers, to the edge of the cliff and looks out at the ocean before turning back to me, “See, this is all I ever wanted for you, Will. For both of us.”_
> 
> _I nod, “It’s beautiful.”_
> 
> _I’ve finally given in. The hunt we just emerged from, victorious, was beautiful. Hannibal’s arms come up around me, pulling me close to his chest. I find myself burrowing closer. If I give in now, it’s saying that all of the denial and fighting I’ve done these past years was pointless. I don’t know how to just give in. I’m not sure I can. I know I can’t. I pull Hannibal in tight and feel a tear fall down my cheek. The adrenaline has pushed the pain of my wounds to the background, but I can feel it wearing off now. The pain slowly returning. I have one more card to play before surrending to Hannibal and finally giving myself over to him, giving in to the nature I know has been sitting, waiting beneath my skin this whole time. I shift my weight, lunging toward the ocean, letting gravity pull us down. I can feel Hannibal’s grip tighten, and I can almost feel the acknowledgment at my last ditch effort, at letting fate decide for us what happens next. Hannibal has always understood. The air rushes past and then…nothing._


	15. He'd Often Wondered How They Lived After A Fall Like That

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks. I hoped you enjoy the finale, as well as everything that came before. If you did, I'd appreciate the kudos and hearing your thoughts. Til next time, my fellow Fannibals.

Yet another thing he remembers. They were only free for two months, but it was truly _freedom_ for Will. He had finally _become_ what he was meant to be. What Hannibal had seen in him the whole time. They managed to make it out of the water and begin healing, but they also began to find their own design. They never really talked about it, but just fell into a pattern. They would hunt when they could, partly because Hannibal wanted to see the kind of art Will would design. He wanted to see Will’s own design, but also wanted to develop _their_ design. Jack was after them as soon as they had escaped, and they knew he wouldn’t stop. It was only a matter of time before they were caught, Will knew, so he wanted to hunt together as much as possible before that happened. He didn’t always choose who, but more often than not, Hannibal would at least ask his input on who they would hunt. He knew Will didn't fall in with his “eat the rude” stance, but he _did_ believe in hunting those who may have slipped justice. It worked as well as it could have for the first month. They would hunt and return to whatever motel they had to lie low in. They shared a bed now, which was another development, but one that wasn’t spoken of before it happened. Things just fell into place. Then Will's wounds got infected. The wound in his cheek hadn’t been given proper care, and had initially seemed to be healing well, but then things took a turn. They managed a couple more weeks before Hannibal demanded Will let him take him to the hospital. Will generally used an argument referring to how Hannibal hadn’t found his being ill before to be much of a problem, so why should it matter now. The older man never really appreciated that argument. In the end, Hannibal took Will when he was deep in the throes of a fever dream, not giving him another chance to argue. That was also how they were caught.

After that, Will remembers being under Chilton’s care again. Clarice had run off with Margot when Hannibal had broken out, so Frederick was chief administrator again. Unfortunately for Frederick, Will and Hannibal were on the same cell block until Will was taken. They would talk, not caring that Chilton was listening in. It kept them both occupied and gave them contact. Will hadn’t quite known how to be without the man anymore. Now that he had fully embraced who he had become, he was at a loss. Frequently, he would venture inside his head, ignoring Chilton’s questions or anything else except for Hannibal. It wasn’t until the middle of their second year at BSHCI that Jack came to see Will. He could tell his old boss was full of guilt, but he didn’t want to do anything to absolve him of it. Jack _should_ feel guilty. He had used Will for years, pushed him to lose himself, ignored any protests about his health. He wasn’t about to let the man off the hook for that. He would visit once every two weeks, trying to get Will to say he was brainwashed or forced to go along with Hannibal. That went on for two months. Then Jack started to come once a week to talk about a project he was working on that could have major implications for the psychology field _and_ the justice system. He was intrigued, but not enough to force conversation. He ignored Jack every time he came. In the middle of his third year in BSHCI, Jack stopped coming to see him. He wasn’t sure if the man had finally given up, if he had died, or if something else had happened.

At the end of the third year, Jack returned, but this time Chilton was with him. They had Will strapped to a trolley and masked, not speaking, before taking him away. He remembers Hannibal’s eyes following him, keeping eye contact until it was impossible to follow. He was taken to a small medical facility an hour or so away from the hospital. That was when Jack talked more about the project he, and now Chilton, had been working on. They talked of a behavior modification project. This wasn’t really anything new. Hannibal received regular psychiatric journals and apparently that was a popular trend right now. They had discussed it many times. Will’s stance was very firmly against it. Jack, though, had far different ideas and was planning to use him as their first test subject. He wasn’t asked if he wanted to participate, he was told that he would be. That he was volunteered by Chilton, as was Hannibal for later testing. Jack wanted Will to be the first, though.

He remembers how tired he was after each injection of the first drug they were planning to use on him. He was pulled from his cell once a week for injections. It wasn’t until after the fifth, or maybe sixth, injection that he started to notice he was forgetting things. He talked everything out with Hannibal and, while the older man tried to hide it, he knew Hannibal was afraid of what it was doing to him. He started to forget more and more until he finally didn’t remember anything. After that, he was Will Graham, teacher for the FBI, though he doesn’t remember actually teaching anything before he was brought to the facility. They brought in Dr. Alana Bloom, a colleague of Clarice’s, as a neutral party, someone not familiar with Will’s history. They wanted to test him, see if he would pass. They brought Hannibal in to see if he would be triggered. He hadn’t been, not really. When they started injecting him again with the second drug, that’s when things started getting different. Instead of reinforcing his current directives, his interactions with Hannibal brought feelings out. His true personality started coming back to the foreground. He may not have remembers what he had done, but he knew how he felt about certain things. Behavior modification being one of those things. It was only when he tried to help Hannibal that they decided to try the first drug again. But, as Hannibal said in his letter, that only served to cancel out the initial injection. He only got the worst of the side effects. Blackouts. Anger. Bursts of strength. Chilton referred to him as a Wendigo because he became a sort of demon when he was suffering the blackouts. He was more brutal then than when he and Hannibal hunted together. Which brings him to now.

Will blinks open his eyes and looks around the atrium. Where would Hannibal have hidden the key? He’s looked nearly everywhere. It comes to him then and he lets out a bark of laughter. Of course. His thoughts are interrupted by the electronic voice announcing,

**“ _Main power supply failing. Switching to auxiliary power supply_.”**

The lights shut off and everything is dark. It’s almost exactly as it was when he first woke up. Fortunately, he no longer really needs the light. He turns and stalks back up the north hall, into Lab I. His eyes adjust to the near darkness, but he can focus in on the frog pinned to the tray. The auxiliary power has just enough dim light for him to see to do what he needs to. He fumbles around for a pair of gloves, finally finding some, before picking up the scalpel on the tray. He slices through the neat stitches. Definitely Hannibal’s work. He’s seen enough of the man’s stitching on himself and others to recognize it by now. He pulls open the sides of the frog’s chest and pokes a finger in, quickly finding the key. He wipes it off on a cloth before walking back to the north end of the hallway and walking to the door to the north. He puts the key into the lock and it opens easily. He takes a deep breath and opens the door, feeling the immediate blast of frigid air hit him. Outside. He steps out, bracing himself against the cold. He finds himself facing a ladder and climbs up. His knuckles are white from the cold, and he’s shivering. He knows he’s also shivering in anticipation. There’s just one mystery he’s yet to remember. What happened to Jack and Alana? He’s sure he’s about to find out. He climbs, pushing himself to the top, coming into the light. He’s in a courtyard. There are high, concrete walls surrounding the area, the sun reflecting brightly against the snow on the ground. He closes his eyes at the slight warmth from the sun, trying to ignore the wind, but the walls seem to block most of it anyway.

“Will.”

He keeps his eyes closed but smiles when he hears the lilting voice he’s been following for what feels like days, “Hello, Hannibal.”

Opening his eyes, he turns around to see Hannibal behind him. Taking in the man’s still gaunt face, he can’t help but frown until he sees the affection in the man’s eyes. He’s smiling as Hannibal reaches out to brush Will’s scarred cheek, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” Will tells him, tongue in cheek, “How rude of me.”

Hannibal lets out a low chuckle, his hand sliding away from Will’s face, “I believe the rude ones have already received their punishment.”

Will tilts his head to the side, some memories still missing, “Have they?”

“Oh yes,” Hannibal agrees, frowning, “Do you not remember?”

He shakes his head, “Some things are still blank, but I’ve gotten most of them back.”

“Hmm,” Hannibal hums, “I’m sure it won’t be long before you’re back to 100%.”

“Does it really matter if I am?” Will questions, knowing how important the answer is, “I remember our life before here, before BSHCI. We can return to that now.”

Hannibal studies him for several moments before stepping aside and gesturing toward the helicopter, “Maybe you’ll remember soon enough.”

Will looks toward the copter, confused by the two shapes on the ground near it. He steps away from Hannibal and walks toward the shapes. As he gets closer, he notices the cloth over the shapes. It’s a dark brown and black. Then he notices blue grey tinged skin under a sheen of ice. He lets out a gasp when he realizes what, who, the shapes are, the memories coming back to him as the pendulum swings one last time.

> _I feel such anger. I can’t control it. But it’s not just that, it’s the power. It feels like when Hannibal and I defeated the Dragon. It’s a rich, seductive sort of power. I can feel his presence beside me as we stalk our prey. Our prey. They poisoned me. They’ve been poisoning both of us. They locked us up, left us to die, to kill each other and solve their problem. But we got out. Hannibal doesn’t try to control me, he guides me. We waited. We stalked them, hunted them, watched them. Chilton left after our first test. We needed to test them, see where the weakness was, and we found it. He’s gone now, leaving only Jack and Alana. Jack must suffer, he must die for what he’s done to us. We listened, biding our time until their escape. Alana had to go, too. Hannibal wanted her. Jack was mine, so Alana was his. He didn’t like how close she was to me. He’s forgiven me, but she has to go. Alana went to the courtyard first. Jack had to turn off the power and make sure everything was locked up. We go after Alana first._
> 
> _The look on her face when she sees us, the horror in her eyes. She knows what we are there for. Her eyes are filled with emotion. Confusion, pity, terror, revulsion. The sounds she makes as she gasps are all but swallowed back. I can imagine how we look to her. Hannibal wearing Chilton’s clothes, me in my regular clothes but with blood on my hands, probably other places I’ve managed to touch after cutting myself. I can imagine how blank, empty, I must look to her. My eyes are dilated so very different from each other. Even knowing I have Hannibal, I feel anger at her revulsion. Why is she looking at me like that? Does she still insist that I’m unstable? She screams. Why? Why is she screaming? I hear panting behind us and turn around. Jack comes into the yard, his whole body shaking when he sees us. He nearly falls back down the ladder. I can feel a strong satisfaction. No. He didn’t fall back, he’s here now. He must die. I glance at Hannibal and he nods, letting me know that we can go ahead and mete out our own brand of justice._
> 
> _I jump at Jack. There are screams, both from him and Alana. I hear Hannibal going after her, but I focus on Jack. The man who used me. I pin him and grab his head, slamming it against the hard ground. He used me for years. Slam. Not caring how it affected me. Slam. Not listening to anyone when they expressed concern. Slam. Not letting me leave even after the encephalitis and incarceration. Slam. Sending me after Hannibal like his own bloodhound. Slam. Following me when I was hunting Hannibal in Europe. Slam. Bringing me back after I finally found some sort of peace. Slam. Using me again. Slam. I come back to myself and feel the blood drenching me, but I almost feel relieved. It’s over. All of the screams have stopped. I take several steps back to take in the scene in front of me. Hannibal standing over Alana’s body, not a drop of blood on him. He turns near feral eyes on me and grins sharply. I return it, but have taken a step too far and feel the ground drop from beneath me. I fall down the well leading back to the facility. I can barely bring myself to stand. I can feel bruises forming as I stumble into the hall. Then everything goes dark._

Will comes to. Hannibal is leaning over him, concern in his eyes, “Are you alright, Will?”

He nods, moving into a sitting position, “I remember what happened here.”

“Good,” Hannibal replies, helping Will stand, “and how do you feel about it?”

Will groans, “Low hanging fruit, Hannibal.”

The older man chuckles, “I apologize, I merely meant to ascertain your feelings on the discovery, not as your psychiatrist, but as your partner.”

“My partner in crime, huh?” Will smirks, then gestures at the bodies, “I _feel_ like they had it coming. I remember all the rage I felt at Jack, and the relief after.”

“Good,” was all Hannibal said as they walk to the helicopter.

Will walks beside him, then stops suddenly at a thought, “Did you change my clothes after I fell?”

“Of course,” Hannibal says simply, “I didn’t want you to wake and see yourself covered in blood.”

“You knew I wouldn't remember,” he states.

“I knew it was a great probability,” Hannibal corrects him, searching through the cockpit for keys, finding them rather easily, “It’s also why I left the note. I imagined you’d find it eventually.”

Will nods, following Hannibal into the helicopter, only briefly wondering if the man knows how to fly. He chuckles softly to himself, a distant part of his mind chiding him for worrying about that in this situation. Hannibal starts the takeoff, then turns on the guidance system, sparing a glance and smirk to Will before looking out the window as they drift upwards out of the yard. Will feels the machine turn and head south, away from the ruins of the Ripper Project. Leave it to Jack to name it something to further test him. As they fly south, all he can think to ask Hannibal is, “So, where to next?”

 

FIN


End file.
